


Red Riding Hood

by Puffers_McMuffers



Category: Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Angst, Cigarettes, Daddy Issues, Dark Humor, Dirty Thoughts, Drunk Sex, Everyone is a terrible person and it's never adressed, F/M, Foul language because we're all big kids now, Loneliness, Love/Hate, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Motercycles, Poor Life Choices, Questionable Motives, Sarcasm, Self-Hatred, Smoking, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Underfell Sans (Undertale), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but everyone is kind of an asshole so it's okay, the reader is kind of an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2020-09-02 06:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20271265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puffers_McMuffers/pseuds/Puffers_McMuffers
Summary: You're a terrible person.Which is fairly self-explanatory in it of itself, but nonetheless.Your descent into human tragedy had been anything but an overnight change, but, you know. Things happened, and the culmination of all your questionable life choices had led you to become the person you were now; a sarcastic, twenty-something-year-old nihilist with bleak prospects boarding on the line of alcoholism.So when you wake up after a night at a bar in a jacket that doesn't belong to you and an aching, feverishly red hickey on your neck, you're not exactly surprised. But when a certain red-eyed skeleton with a wolfish grin and anger management issues decides to insert himself into your trainwreck of a life, well. You aren't having it.Unfortunately, he's not taking no for an answer.





	1. Hangovers and Hickeys

**Author's Note:**

> Alcoholism is a bitch and so are you.

You’d been hungover before.

But _ goddamn, _this took the motherfucking cake.

“I’m never, ever, _ ever _going to go drinking again,” you groaned, burying your throbbing head into your arms as the waves of pain reached a crescendo behind your temples. You absently itched at your neck under your hair, hissing as your nails scratched the painfully tender teeth marks carved into the skin below your jaw.

“Isn't that what you said last time?”

You lifted your bloodshot eyes up from your arms to glower at a short girl with a shock of pink hair pinned into twin buns atop her head. A name tag pinned to her left breast dubbed her _ Kitty, _the feminine script nestled soundly on a delicate, flour covered pink apron not unlike your own.

“Piss off,” you growled, her eternally cheery voice alone enough to make your migraine pulse with newfound motivation.

“Manners!” Kitty reminded cheerfully, cute little dimples creasing her cheeks as she grabbed a mug out from the shelf behind you.

You rolled your eyes, sending a searing pain through your retinas. The scent of warm vanilla and crisp, buttery cookies wafting through the air of the bakery had done nothing to quiet your churning stomach and you rested your forehead against the cool countertop in protest, groggily wishing you’d been aborted.

In hindsight, you understood that getting absolutely _ wasted _last night was a bad idea, because 1), it was a Wednesday night, and 2), because you were only a few shots away from being a certified alcoholic and you had enough on your plate as it was.

But, like, that was the whole _ point _ of being an almost-alcoholic, right? Understanding that getting drunk was a Very Bad Idea and getting drunk anyways because _ fuck it. _

So you'd done what any almost-alcoholic, 20 something year old, debt ridden sad sack would do and, after getting off work, had decided to get completely hammered when you damn well knew you had work the next day.

Your parents would’ve been so proud.

Kitty grabbed some saltines out from under the counter and filled up a mug with some lukewarm water before sliding both into your view. 

“Try and feel better, ‘kay?” she patted your head fondly, and had you not felt quite so shitty, you probably would have smacked her, ‘cause, like, fuck her for being so nice, right? You settled for shrinking away with a half-hearted grumble as she spun into the kitchen, no doubt to unwittingly patronize the poor fuck you’d caught snorting powdered sugar in the back.

When you were certain she was out of sight, you begrudgingly nibbled on the salted crackers. It tasted like cardboard, but it did soothe the roar of your stomach slightly.

You swallowed the rest of the water down before resting your head on your hands, trying to ignore the throbbing in your skull.

The post-lunch cupcake rush had just dissipated, which was good, because you weren’t sure how much more customer service you could handle before you snapped. There were a few people lingering in the outskirts of the cafe, however, and since your boss had made a no phone policy because _ unprofessionalism _and all, you had little to do but watch them.

Sitting near the window blinds was a greying man with a crooked back and crooked glasses, who was hunched over a newspaper with a frown. You could just make out the title of the cover page story if you squinted. 

_ Violent crime rate skyrockets as Monsters integrate into city, _it said in big, unforgiving black lettering.

You’d read that article. Dumb fucking monsters would honestly be the end of humanity_ . _ It seemed like most people would agree with you, except for that old blonde bitch on TV who’d preached pro-monster bullshit ever since they'd dug their way out of the ground in a cheap, thinly veiled political ploy. The only reason she wanted equality for monsters was so that they'd vote for her in the next election, which wasn’t a terrible strategy for gaining power, but, you know. It wasn’t a _ great _one, either.

God. If there was one thing you hated more than people who preached anthropomorphic goat rights, it was people who exploited said anthropomorphic goats for fuel their own political agenda.

Anyways.

The table next to him was occupied by a teenage couple exchanging soft laughs and shy smiles and you nearly vomited. Whether it was because of the shameless PDA or your gut wrenching hangover you didn't quite know. They seemed so very, very happy, and you had the sudden urge announce _ 1 out of four marriages end in divorce. _

Your gaze shifted over to a man in plaid, quietly sipping his mug of steamy black decaf coffee as he typed something out on his computer. 

He had on a red beanie, because of course he did, with a pin that was-

Your scowl dropped.

The pin was fairly simple, with a smooth, black finish laminating a cartoon image of a skull and crossbones, like the image you'd assume you'd find on a pirate ship or an edgy, early nineties emo band.

You looked away, eyebrows furrowed as your fingers absently rubbed at the dark mark in the crook of your neck. 

_ Your skin was burning, flushed against the hazy red light streaming from the bar as your back pressed up against the wall _ . _ Your blood thrummed with a familiar buzz, the buzz of intoxication and the kind of reckless abashment only a pint of liquor could bring someone. _

_ A heavy warmth was pinning you to the wall, and you squeezed your eyes shut as you let out a muffled whimper. Hands were on your back, on your shoulders, on your hips, on your waist. Lazy, hot breath puffed against your neck as your fingers clutched at the weight, pulling the pressure closer, closer, closer- not close enough, never close enough- _

“Miss?”

You snapped out of your stupor, letting your hair fall back over your angry hickey as you blinked at the boy staring at you worriedly. Your face was a little flushed and you couldn’t help but be a little warm at the memory, as hazy as it had been.

“Are you alright?” The new customer asked timidly, his brows knitted.

You smiled, adding _ werid sexy fantasy at work _to your mental list of things that made you a terrible person. “Yeah! I’m Sorry. Just- um, just dozing off. What can I get you?” You asked pleasantly, smoothing out the ruffles in your polka dotted pink apron. You spared a glance back over to the man in plaid, quickly turning your attention back to the boy in front of you before he could follow your gaze.

“Oh, um, I was wondering if I could have a medium cappuccino?” He asked. “Um, with extra whipped cream, if that’s okay…?”

“Of course!” you responded, punching in some numbers into the register a little harder than strictly necessary. “Anything else?”

He shook his head.

“Great! So that’s a medium cappuccino with extra whipped cream, right?” You asked with a tilt of your head. He nodded and paid you, ignoring the tip jar in front of you, because _ of course he did. _

You made his drink and piled on enough whipped cream the cup seemed obscenely top heavy.

“There you go,” you said politely, handing him his cup. “Have a good one!” 

He thanked you without meeting your gaze and quickly hustled out of the store.

You watched him go, your smile dropping as a sudden wave of searing pain washed over your head again. You winced, expression quickly morphing into a deadpan with just the hint of a scowl twitching at the edge of your painted lips as the pain faded.

Goddamn hangover.

For the fifth time today, you wondered why Kitty didn't have your job. She _ lived _ for this friendly shit, while you were perfectly content to do- well, anything _ but _customer service, really. Had it not been for the free cupcakes you probably would have quit your job already.

You suppose your job was why you'd gotten drunk in the first place. At the very least it was a contributing factor. Drinking away your problems was a habit you indulged far too often, even for your own, morally questionable standards, and work certain created problems for you.

First of all, you'd been kept up all night by the noisy nighttime activities of your attractive neighbor and his- er, _ lady friend- _ and with the thin walls of your dingy apartment, even headphones couldn't muffle the noise. Then your coffee maker had broken and your redbull had spilled all over your favorite tee shirt, and you’d been too hungover to drive, so you’d had to pay thirty dollars for an uber to work.

Your work day had not been any better. You spent your entire shift being yelled at, flipped off, or threatened by people unsatisfied with things utterly out of your control. One lady had even demanded a refund because the milk foam on top of her expresso was _hardly even frothy_. Kitty had been forced to physically stop you from punching two customers after they’d asked why you looked so tired.

And then the teenager they’d hired to deliver cupcakes to the senior center had gone AWOL, and you’d been politely implored (Read: forced) to take his place. You had to get there before six and visitor hours closed, and it had been five forty three when you’d left, so you’d had to take a shortcut down a not-so-nice part of town. As in New Snowdin. 

Monster territory.

You’d figured you’d be safe if you just stayed on the main road and sped through the street, so that was what you’d done.

Then your motorcycle had broken down, ‘cause, like. Why the fuck _ wouldn’t _it break down?

You’d spotted a bar and walked your bike over to its parking lot, then pulled out your phone to call a mechanic or something. And after that-

Well.

It was fuzzy, to say the least.

You assumed your bike was still there, since it hadn’t been at your home. Which was good, because that meant you’d had the sense to not drive drunk. However, this _ also _meant your motorcycle- your darling, lovely, most prized possession- had been left unsupervised in a seedy bar parking lot in the worst street in the city.

Worse still, this meant you’d have to _ go _to that street again.

You would’ve skipped work to pick it up, but you were all out of sick days because of all the other times you’d been too hungover to show up at work. So you’d resolved to head straight there after work and pick it up. 

……………………………………….

You’d just finished your shift and headed over to the breakroom, where your locker was pressed up against the wall. You stripped off your apron and tossed it away, fumbling to open your locker to retrieve your phone, jeans, and sweatshirt. As soon as you opened it a massive, black coat tumbled out and onto your feet.

Pocketing your phone you bent to pick it up, letting your fingers gently bunch in the fur lining of the hood as something stirred in the back of your head.

_ Rumbling laughter floated through your head as you tucked youself neatly into his plush coat, melting into the warmth he’d left in it and pulling your fingers inside the sleeves. It smelled like him, like lazy booze and chain smoking and sleep and cheap soap and that certain, heady kind of musk that could only be described as _ boy _ . It was big enough to squeeze two of you inside of it, and its weight made you feel small and protected, like someone was wrapping you up in their arms. _

_ “Careful, or I might just keep this,” you joked, and he chuckled. _

_ “you keep looking like that and i might just keep _ you, _ doll.” _

Your throat was dry all of a sudden as you rosed yourself from your haze, shaking your head as you tried to bring yourself back to reality. You stuffed jacket back into the locker and hoisted the jeans and shirt under your arms, but hesitated just as you started to close the door.

After a moment of debate you pulled the locker open and grabbed the coat, adding it to your pile and heading into the bathroom to change.

You made quick work of slipping out of your uniform (a cutesy little collared dress with the company name across the back that made you want to vomit) and into your usual, much less _ lolita _ attire. You had just pulled your sweater over your head when you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, and you couldn’t help but do a double take.

And not the good kind of double take.

You were a mess. Not even cute messy. More like the mess left behind after a truck hit a jogger. Dark bags lined your eyes, your hair was wild, and your face had a sort of feverish flush that made it look like you had caught something contagious. Children must fear the dead look in your eyes, you thought as you prodded at your left cheek. Moving your arm had also moved your hair, and you were suddenly distracted by the sight of a very, very nasty hickey on your neck.

It rested just below your jawline, on your pulse point. Instead of the normal, purplish mark you had expected, this one was an angry, inflamed red, like you’d broken an actual blood vessel. Could you break a blood vessel from a hickey? You should have paid more attention in high school biology. Then again, you didn’t think they would have told you about the science of hickeys. 

Ugh, it was so obvious. No wonder that lady had given you the eye this afternoon. Hadn’t you put makeup on it this morning? You guess you must have rubbed it off on accident. Whatever. You couldn’t be held accountable for what drunk you had done.

You hurried out of the bathroom and past the counter to the door, but before you could make it out of the store, Kitty stepped in front of you, effectively blocking your path to the door.

“Whoa whoa _ whoa, _where are you running off too?” she asked playfully.

“To pick up my bike,” you replied shortly, trying to move past her. She blocked the way again.

“Do you have a ride?”

Your nose crinkled. “Aren’t you still working?”

“I can have my cousin come and pick you up! His name is-”

“It’s okay, I’ll take an uber.” You again took a step to the side, and again, she followed. You let out an impatient puff of air. “Would you move?” 

“In a second,” she chirped back pleasently. “I just wanted to ask you if everything is-” 

Kitty cut herself off, pursing her lips as she appeared to debate on how to continue. “I was wondering if everything was okay, you know?” she finally settled, brown eyes wide and searching.  
You shifted uncomfortably. “What’s it to you?” 

“I’m just- I dunno. Worried.”

_ “ _ That seems like a _ you _ problem.”

Kitty went on as though she hadn't heard you. “You just seem to- and I don’t mean to offend you- seem to be in a not so great place, lately.” 

“That so?”

“You just seem tired a lot, I guess. And sad. I don’t know. I mean, I’m just worried.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “I’m tired and sad, now?”

“Well-”

“Maybe that’s because I’m in a dead end job, I’m late on all my bills, I have thousands of dollars of student loans, I have no friends, and I’m ugly and people are constantly telling me I look tired. That’d make you sad, huh?”

Kitty refused to be intimidated by your self deprecation. “I just want you to be happy. I’m always open to talk, you know.”  
“Like we’re friends or something?”

“Exactly! You can talk to me because we’re friends.”

You dug your fingernails into your arm and looked at the space to the right of her shoulder. She was, _ technically _, the closest thing you had to a friend. Mostly because you didn't know how to make friends, and introducing yourself to people outside of work was enough to give you an aneurysm.

“...Kitty, I’ve really got to-”

“I just think maybe you need to find some other form of coping that doesn’t involve- um, alcohol,” Kitty continued as though she hadn't heard you. “Like… baking! You like baking, right?” 

You shrugged. “I’m too poor and fat to be baking all the time.”

“You aren’t-”

“Speaking of baking, I think you still have cookies in the oven.”

She looked up at you in confusion for a moment, before her eyes went wide with horror. Without another word to you she bounced into the kitchen, leaving you free to flee before she realized you’d taken the batch out for her.

……………………………………….

  


Your motorcycle was exactly where you’d left it, at the outskirts of the parking lot, gleaming in the buzzing neon of the bar it patroned. After quickly checking to see if it was untampered with and breathing out a heavy sigh of relief, you swung your legs over the seat, popped the keys into the ignition, which did absolutely nothing.

Ah. You’d almost forgotten why you’d had to stop here in the first place. 

With a reluctant groan you dismount your bike, turning your head to warily face the warm looking, only slightly seedy bar titled _ Grillbys _behind you.

A stray memory of you retching in the parking lot outside suddenly floated into your head, only for you to shake it away. Not before you recalled the hand that hand been on your back and the voice that chuckled as you’d straightened, having not been able to get anything up.

You shivered, shoving your hands into the pockets of your new jacket.

It was oddly comforting, kind of heavy and big and warm and soft. It reminded you of being inside next to a fire during a thunderstorm. It even smelled vaguely of smoke, though more like cigarette smoke then smoke from a fire. 

You’d call someone to pick you and your bike up, you resolved. It didn’t matter how much it cost. You just needed to get you and your motorcycle out of the area as fast as possible.

But it wasn’t like you were going to wait out _ here. _ No, you’d call, go inside the bar, find a booth, _ not drink, _ and wait for them to come. Even if there _ were _monsters inside the bar, if you kept a low profile, you’d probably be safer then you’d be out alone in the dark. Besides, they hadn’t murdered you last night when you were drunk. If they’d wanted to assault you they would’ve done it then.

So after a quck call you took a breath, gave your bike a pat, and headed inside the bar for the second time in 24 hours.

… And immediately regretted it.

It was so loud, and so _ bright, _your poor head just couldn’t take it. Music blasted through the air, mingled with the hearty laughs and jeers of the rowdy patrons. The bitter scent of cigarettes and greasy food twisted your stomach, and you had to swallow back bile. 

Monsters dressed in black and red leather were playing poker to the table on your right, and there was a bunny with piercings passed out in the booth to your left, her arms draped around a dog with matted fur. You weren’t sure what everyone else was doing, because after that you’d lost your nerve and stuck your face into your coat, rushing past the monsters like a mouse in a cat shelter.

You quickly retreated into a vacant space on the bar, staying as far away from the other monsters as possible. It was a Thursday night and the bar was packed. Usually on thursdays it was just you and maybe four, five other people at your local bar. Crazy stuff.

A flickering glow of violet in a crisp black button up and a red tie caught you attention as the fire elemental approached you, his glasses glimmering in the light emanated from his flames. The smell of crackling wood and dancing heat filled your lungs as he stopped in front of you, mingling with the faint scent of expensive musk. 

He stayed silent, but you felt his gaze creeping over you inquisitively.

“You need something?” you replied, not exactly kindly.

He motioned to the liquors behind him and then nodded at you expectantly. He was asking if you wanted a drink. Obviously. Jesus christ, obviously. You were sitting at the bar, what did you expect?

“No- no, I’m good, actually. I’m waiting, not-”

He poured a glass for you before you could finished slid it to you, as if telling you to shut up. You gave him a look, which he returned.

“I’m broke.”

He didn’t move.

You let out a huff of breath, and then, against your better judgement, hesitantly took the cup. You took a tiny sip, and-

_ Damn. _

You took another, slightly larger gulp, and then reluctantly set down the glass. “I’m not paying for this, you know.”

Grillby- you’d just remembered his name- didn't respond, simply continuing to stare at you. You frowned, wondering if he hadn't heard you properly.

“I’m not _ paying _for this. I’m broke.”

“He says its on the bone bag’s tab,” a dog monster- _ anthropomorphic drunk dogs, what a world- _ sitting a few seats away cut in. slurring slightly. 

“The bone- _ what _?” 

The dog leered at you. “Don’ fuckin’ play _ dumb, _human, you got ‘im all over you.”

“_ Who, _exactly?”

“What the fuck you playin’ at, actin’ like you don’ already fuckin’ know? Think ‘m stupid or somthin’? Huh?” The dog’s black lip curled as he leaned into your space, so close you could smell the brandy on his damp, putrid breath

“I literally have no idea who the fuck you’re talking about,” you said slowly, trying not to gag and hoping he couldn’t smell the fear prickling at the back of your neck. Your eyes darted to its paws, and the razor sharp, grimy claws poking out of his dirty white fur. A lump rose in your throat.

“How ‘bout I pull out all your nice fuckin’ teeth and we’ll see if you remember _ then, _huh? You fuckin’-”

But before he could finish a hand wrapped around his maw and smashed his head down into the bar, so hard you swore you could hear his skull crack under the force. The dog didn’t even have the time to yelp, going limp almost immediately.

Your heart lodged itself somewhere in your esophagus, preventing any sound from escaping as you toppled off your own barstool and landed flat on your ass in front of untied, red sneakers. A few moments later the unconscious body of the dog crashed down next to you and a small, strangled noise clawed its way past your lips.

“guess you just couldn’t keep away, huh, kid?” a low, rumbling, _ familiar _ voice drawled, and the hickey on your neck flared with a sharp pain. You jerked your gaze up to the source of the voice, only to be met with the inhumanly wide, toothy grin of an _ actual goddamn fucking skeleton. _

So you did what any reasonable human in your position would've done.

You fucking _booked it. _


	2. Blood in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood in the Water:  
1\. (idiomatic) In a competitive situation, the exhibition of apparent weakness or vulnerability by one party, especially when this leads to a feeling of greater pressure to perform on the part of the weak party, and/or the ehanced expectation of victory by the other(s)

You'd booked it.

Well, no. You'd certainly made an _attempt _to book it, but unfortunately, you'd forgotten you were still very much hungover and therefore were incapable of any sort of vigorous activity. So after you'd stumbled to your feet, you took one step and decided that _yeah, that wasn't going to happen._

You doubted you would've had much say in the matter, anyway, as the skeleton- _an actual, real-life, goddamn skeleton- _stepped over the body on the floor and into your space, effectively caging you against the bar. You flattened yourself against the wood, leaning back and away from him as you clutched at your coat like it was armor. Sweat collected at the base of your neck and your face felt like it was on fire.

His eyes- or rather, sockets- were half-lidded, empty pits of black, with pinpricks of crimson fixed on you with such unforgiving intensity, had you been a lesser person, you would've cried.

Instead, you bit your lip, setting your jaw and staring at the space just above his right shoulder as your fingers curled into the black, warm fringes of your jacket.

His grin twitched, wickedly sharp gold tooth glinting in the harsh neon of the bar. The bar was as rowdy as it'd ever been, but now, crowded into a corner as he loomed over you with an expression that could only be described as _predatory, _nothing existed but the insurmountable space between you.

"nice jacket," he said finally, his voice whiskey-rough and rumbling straight through you. His breath smelled like cheap booze and smoke, hot and pervasive against you as he leaned in further, gaze rolling down the line of your figure languidly.

You responded with a strangled, small sound and hugged your arms into your chest, still refusing to make eye contact. You felt dizzy, overcome by the terrible, inescapable understanding that you were very much trapped.

He seemed unaffected by your discomfort, letting out a low laugh that sent shivers down your spine for more then one reason.

"you scared, sweetheart?"

You sucked in a hard breath through your teeth and finally- _finally- _turned your head to meet his unwavering gaze.

"Fuck you."

_"Fuck you," you snickered, pulling him in by his collar and bumping your forehead to his clumsily. He chuckled, hands finding your waist as he puffed out a lazy, hot breath against your cheek._

_"you're so goddamn mean, kid," he murmured lowly, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. His hands were hard, all angles and joints, and you were so soft. Pliant. Warm._

_"That right?" you whispered, leg brushing against his own._

_"mmn."_

His tilted his head at you.

"fuck me, huh? not even gonna buy me dinner first."

Your sudden surge of confidence faltered at his impassiveness to your spite. Usually, you were _good _at talking shit, but now you were at a loss. You'd blame it on your hangover, but you'd been a dick to people plenty of times while you were hungover. No, this was different. You were just-

He was just so _disarming._

"your face is red."

"At least I _have _a face, bonehead."

_There _it was. You hadn't even really thought about saying it, muscle memory had just kicked in. Which was not great, now that you were thinking about it. The fact that you were an asshole so frequently being a jackass was just your knee-jerk response to anything was a little concerning, but you'd file that away for future analysis. As in you'd ignore it and when it started to bother you you'd get drunk.

"bonehead. creative."

"Shut the hell up."

He clucked his tongue, eye lights flickering over your face. "_ouch_. you've got a mouth on you, doncha?"

Your nose wrinkled, your irritation at being patronized overriding your self-preservation. "You just fucking _assaulted _somebody, I think me hurting your feelings is the least of your worries."

"_my _feelings_? _you were the one lookin' like they were 'bout to piss themselves when he got all mad atcha. don't think you thanked me for fixing that for you, by the way."

You gaped up at him in disbelief. "You want me to _thank _you for busting that guy's fucking _head _open?"

He scoffed. "the dog's fine. they're durable. you humans are all so fuckin' fragile."

_You humans. _Excuse him, but last you'd checked, _monsters _were the ones causing problems in the city. Before they'd crawled up out of the mountain everything had been great.

Well, okay, no. Things had been shit because humans were shit, but they'd been better. The only good thing monsters had done was give humanity a common enemy.

But it wasn't like you were going to tell _him _that. You might've started biting back at him, but you weren't about to commit _suicide _by pissing him off. He obviously had no qualms with violence, as the body below you would testify to, and you didn't want to be just another _missing _poster pinned to a corkboard at a Walmart.

"He doesn't _look _fine."

"so what?"

"So someone'll call the cops."

He let out a short laugh at that. One that seemed directed at _you, _not at anything humorous you'd said.

"kid. no one here is gonna call anyone. 'sides, even if they did, you really think cops are gonna show up _here_?"

"That's- that's _not-" y_ou stuttered_, _yet again at a loss for a smartass comeback. You settled on the oldest, least effective insult you could possibly have picked.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He smiled. "you want a list?"

You'd just formed a biting response in your head when he suddenly planted his arms on either side of you, and the words died in your throat.

He was close. Like, he'd been close before, but this was _close. _You couldn't remember the last time someone had intruded into your personal space so violently, much less with the ambiguous intentions he carried. He regarded you quietly for a moment, running a tongue that was _not _made of flesh over his teeth thoughtfully. The tip of his shoe pressed against your own and you swallowed thickly, trying to remember how to breathe.

He was looking at your neck.

"looks good on you," he hummed, barely audible, and your brow twitched in confusion.

You reached up, following his gaze to a spot just below your jaw. "What do you-"

Your voice died in your throat as your fingers brushed against your hickey, and suddenly it _hurt. _Not in the way pressing a bruise hurt, or the sting of a cut, but a deep, acute ache that you didn't have the words to describe.

_Teeth running up and down your skin-_

_Red swimming at the edge of your vision as you let out a shuddering breath, clutching at-_

No. Yeah, no, none of _that, _thank you very much. Now was _not _the time to be remembering shit like that. You really had no filter, did you? Your brain didn't, at least. It certainly didn't help that he was _looking _at you like that, in a way that made you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

"It's none of your business," you managed, significantly weaker then you'd intended as you covered the mark with your palm. There was a pressure on your chest that made the air in your lungs heavy and dry, like you'd just inhaled a great volume of sand.

"yeah?"

"_Yeah._"

Your ankle brushed against his sock and you swallowed.

"Get off," you whispered, nervous. Why the fuck were you _nervous?_

"'m not touching you," he replied, just as quietly, but a hell of a lot more certain of himself then you were.

Your hands were slippery and your heart was pounding so hard you were certain he could hear it.

"Piss off."

"don't think i will."

He was _everywhere. _You couldn't escape him, and a familiar, burning wave of panic bubbled up your esophagus. Just _him, _big and in the way and red and he smelled like something familiar you couldn't identify and you suddenly couldn't _stand it._

Your hands dropped from where they'd been clutching your coat and fell to the bar behind you.

"I _said _get off."

"an' _I _say," he replied, voice dropping even lower then it'd been before, if that was possible, "that I'm happy where i am now."

You grabbed your drink from off the counter and dumped the contents onto his head.

"what the _fuck-?" _he sputtered, stumbling backward and clutching at his eye sockets. You used his temporary distraction to duck under his arm, leaping over the body of the dog and making a wild beeline towards the door.

Except that your bike was still broken. If you went outside and _he _decided to follow you out, well.

You didn't need to be a genius to understand that being alone with him would be _bad._

So you made a sharp turn to the left, barreling down the aisle directly into the bathroom.

Luckily, it was unoccupied, and as soon as you'd made it inside you bolted the door and backed away into the corner, breathing hard and uneven. You could hear your pulse in your ears, drowning out the thumping bass of the music outside.

You pulled out your phone and sunk to the floor, fingers trembling as you scanned through your limited contact list. It was always difficult trying to find the right number, as you hardly saved numbers under names. Usually, you used brief, vague descriptions, a practice you were beginning to regret, until your eyes caught on a familiar, freckled face framed by a shock of pink.

You quickly dialed, pressing the speaker to your ear and keeping your eyes glued to the door. You'd had yet to hear him approach, though that did nothing to comfort you. If anything, it only increased your unease.

It rang once.

Twice.

Shit. Three times.

"Hello?" a girlish, pleasant voice finally- _finally- _answered. You'd never thought you'd ever be relieved at the sound of her voice, but fuck it. You were rattled.

"Kitty. Oh my god. Okay, are you off work yet?"

"Well, technically, yes, but I'm still at the bakery. Why, is everything alright?"

"Uh, _no. _If everything was alright I wouldn't be calling. I was-"

"What happened?"

You let out a hissing exhaled through your gritted teeth. "I'm _trying _to tell you, don't interrupt. I was picking up my bike from that bar-"

"You're drinking again?"

"_Kitty. _Jesus Christ, are you listening? _No. _I'm just picking it up, and-"

"So you're not drinking?"

"I-" You resisted the urge to smack yourself in the face. "No. I'm not drinking. I mean, I had a sip, but no."

"I just don't think it's healthy for you to be drinking. I mean, you were miserable all today because you'd gone drinking last night."

"Kitty, _please. _Listen to me. My bike is broken so I called someone to come tow it back to my apartment so I can work on it, but it's, uh. I ran into somebody at the bar and now I'm stuck here."

"Where's here?"

"The bathroom. I'm hiding in the bathroom and I can't get out to the guy who's going to take my bike."

"Why are you hiding?"

"Because something happened, okay? And the person I'm hiding from is outside, so I can't leave until he, like, forgets about me."

"Right."

"And the guy- the one who's picking up my motorcycle- he said on the phone he's not going to wait around for me in a street with monsters, so I'm going to call him and tell him to just drop it off at my house without me. But that means I need a ride, right?

"Right."

"Right. And you offered earlier, right, to drop me off."

"Right."

There was a pause.

"So you're asking me if I can convince the motorcycle guy to wait for you," Kitty concluded knowingly. "Say no more, I'll give him a call."

This time you _did _slap yourself. "_I'm asking_ if you'll pick me up from the bar, dumbass."

You were vaguely aware calling the person you were asking a favor from a dumbass was probably not the smartest idea, but honestly, who could blame you? Kitty was remarkably obnoxious.

"Oh! Oh, yeah. Okay, yeah! I just need to close up here and then I'll come pick you up, alright? Can you text me the address?"

"Yeah, I'll text."

"Okay! Well, I'll be there soon!"

"Yeah."

You hung up, letting out a long, heavy sigh as you let your head drop back to hit the wall behind you.

Then your stomach rolled and you gagged, rolling to your left to spill your guts out into the toilet.

"_fuck," _you groaned once you'd finished, throat burning with bile. Instead of removing yourself from the porcelain bowl you propped your elbows up onto the seat, pressing your knuckles into your eyes hard enough it hurt.

The knot of anxiety that had built up in your stomach had lessened slightly after you'd vomited, but there was still a sickening, frigid vat of nausea itching behind your ribs that wouldn't seem to go away.

This was better, though. This was familiar. Safe.

The fact that being hunched over a toilet at a seedy bar was not only familiar but _comforting _to you probably should've bothered you more then it did. But if you'd learned anything in the last few years, it was that hating yourself wasn't going to fix anything.

That didn't mean you were going to _stop _hating yourself, though. Obviously.

_BANG BANG BANG_

You jolted, nearly toppling over as you spun your head towards the door, where someone was vehemently pounding.

"_Oi, stop hogging the bathroom!" _a feminine, reedy voice demanded. Not him. Just another drunk asshole.

The tension in your shoulders lessened slightly. "I've been in here _five fucking minutes, _calm down," you shot back, surprising yourself with how little your voice shook.

You must've convinced them, because they stopped knocking and, with a muttered curse, stumbled away.

You turned back to the toilet, letting out a pained exhale and blindly fumbling for the handle of the toilet, flushing it twice before you finally sat back on your haunches and sent Kitty the address.

Now all there was left to do was wait.

...................................

_pink hair girl from work: _im here! :)

_Sent 7:37_

You cracked your eyes open, blearily reading off the phone clutched loosely in your hand.

_You: _ill be out in a sec

_Sent 7:39_

You slowly unfolded yourself out of the corner you'd been sitting in, pinprick tingles running down your numb legs. It'd been twenty minutes since you'd last spoken to her and aside from the one knock earlier, no one had attempted to enter. 

You didn't know how you felt about that. Perhaps he'd lost interest. Maybe even forgotten about you. There really was no way of knowing.

Well. One way. You could leave the bathroom and check. 

You had to leave eventually. You couldn't spend all night sitting in the bathroom.

… right?

No. _No, _you couldn't. What you had to do was grow a pair and just open the damn door. The exit wasn't that far away, and then you were home free. Besides, the skeleton was probably so drunk by now he wouldn't even remember you.

You staggered to your feet, making your way to the sink. You splashed some tap water on your face and instantly felt better

You wiped the excess water off on your jacket and lifted your gaze to your reflection.

He'd been right. Your face _was _red. Flushed all the way from the tip of your nose to your ears like you had a fever. You didn't look particularly _attractive _at the moment, either. Actually, you looked a little like you'd just snorted a massive line of crack.

You looked like shit, to put it lightly. Worse then you had that one weekend a few months ago you'd stayed up three consecutive days because-

You didn't want to think about that, actually.

Fuck it. Who cared if you looked like a meth-head? The only people outside were a bunch of goddamn monsters and honestly, you were the most put together out of all of them. Also, why the hell would you care about the opinions of a bunch of drunk monsters?

And it's not like you were particularly concerned with how Kitty would view you, either. She'd seen you at lower points in your life and still tried to be your friend (despite your constant rejections) and you very much doubted she'd be turned off by your debauched, sloppy appearance.

Your dishevelment _did _beg the question, however. Why had the skeleton seemed so _interested _in you when you looked like you did? And why had it felt like you'd met before?

Maybe you'd bumped into him last night, after your rendezvous with the stranger who'd given you your hickey and presumably your new jacket.

Or maybe-

You shook your head. No. _No. _Even drunk out of your mind, you'd never actually want to, like, fuck a _skeleton. _Besides, even if he'd been a human, you'd never be into anyone as asshole-ish as him.

You approached the door, gnawing at your lip. Outside, the bar was spilling with life and chaos, more untamed then any pub you've ever been to. And that was saying something, 'cause you'd been to a lot of bars. Like, a _lot _of bars.

There didn't seem to be anyone at the other side of the door, however. You'd become adept at knowing when someone was lingering outside doors during high school, when you'd hide in a bathroom or bedroom and wait to sober up enough to drive yourself home.

But that was a different story.

You sucked in a hard breath through your nose and set your jaw, preparing to either make a run for it or sneak silently out to the parking lot once you unlocked the door.

Unfortunately, you didn't have the chance.

The moment the lock had clicked out of place the door was slammed open, throwing you back a solid yard.

"What the _fuck, _man!" you yelped at the skeleton- that _goddamn skeleton- _leaned against the doorframe, surveying you nonchalantly, like you _hadn't _just thrown your drink into his eye sockets the last time you'd had the opportunity.

"you're being kind of a bitch, you know that?" he commented quietly, and something about his voice was different from before. Colder. Harder. Like at any moment he might lose his temper and beat you to death against the tile.

But you know what? You'd just thrown your guts up and your head hurt like a motherfucker. You were _not _in the mood to humor anyone, much less a piece of trash who'd just called you a _bitch._

"Get the _hell _out of the way, jackoff."

"you know what i think?" he continued conversationally, as if you hadn't spoken. "i think you're all bark and no bite."

He took a step into the bathroom and the door slowly shut behind him, leaving you and him alone.

Very much alone, in a seedy bar bathroom that very obviously turned a blind eye to the behavior of its patrons.

"i think," he murmured, voice echoing off the walls, "that you're a scared little thing that talks big an don't got nothing to back it up."

All pretenses of civility had evaporated from his voice. Oh, yeah, he was _pissed. _And if his clumsy footing was any indicator, drunk. Drunker then before. Which wasn't great for you.

"you get off on making big bad monsters all mad, princess?"

He took another step towards you and you shrunk back into the fur of your coat, spot dancing before your eyes.

"Yeah, actually," you whispered back, because you couldn't shut your _goddamn fucking mouth for five fucking seconds, could you?_

His grin became stiff.

"you don't know when to quit it, do ya, kid?"

"Nope." _Shut up shut up shut up shut up._

He was closer then you'd realized. Maybe a foot away. It was a small bathroom and he was bigger than you. Bigger then people were. Because he wasn't a person, was he? He was a monster.

"you want me to keep going? i'll keep going, princess. you keep askin' for it and i won't fucking stop, i swear."

By it, of course, he meant raping and killing you. At least, that's what you assumed he meant. That's what this was all leading to, right? You'd heard this story before. Someone goes to a bar, gets drunk, runs into a mean man and the man fucks and beats them to death. That's how this was going to end.

... It wasn't how you'd thought you were going to go, if you were being honest. Yes, you'd had your suspicions your death would be due to alcohol, but not like _this. _Maybe you'd get drunk and drive your motorcycle off a cliff. Or you'd choke on your own vomit and die, like in that one show. Maybe you'd get sad and hang yourself.

You'd just thought you'd be going out on your own terms. You _certainly _hadn't thought you'd be murdered by a _skeleton _in a bathroom, but hey. It'd be a fun story, at least.

Briefly, you wondered if anyone would miss you. _Briefly _being due to your almost immediate realization that no, no one would care if you died. Maybe your cat. Oh, shit, your cat. Who'd feed him if you died? Maybe your neighbor would take him in. Then again, your neighbor was an asshole, so maybe not.

Poor thing. Even dying, you were still causing problems.

Well.

If you were going to die, you didn't want to go out all hunched over yourself, scared shitless as your murderer antagonized you. If you were going to die- which you _were- _you were going out with your dignity.

So instead of backing, you straightened to your full height, lifted your chin, and stared him straight in the eye.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohoho a cliffhanger!  
i love writing dialogue. anyways i wrote this all in one day and im very proud. sorry for being a dick with the whole leaving you on the edge! I'll post a new chapter in, like, 2 days. Hopefully.
> 
> C u then!
> 
> please dont hate me


	3. Curiosity Killed the Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you get more then you bargained for, and make the lives of those around you exponentially worse.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?"

Before either of you could find out, however, the door burst open behind him. You both turned, only to be confronted by a new, arguably _ more _terrifying force then the skeleton looming over you.

"Knock knock, hello!" Kitty greeted cheerfully, dimples creasing both her cheeks as she held the door open with the toe of her dainty mary jane shoes.

W_ hat the fuck? _

"what the fuck?" the skeleton voiced your thoughts, looking genuinely baffled by the five-foot-nothing pink-haired girl smiling up at him. Kitty seemed small next to near everyone, but when compared to the towering mass of monster standing between you and her, she looked positively _ miniature. _ You didn't doubt that he could tear her quite literally in half if the urge struck him, and you mouthed a frantic _ get out _ at her over his shoulder. Just because you were about to die didn't mean she had to. Not that you were skeptical of her ability to defend herself, but, well. She wasn't exactly what you'd call _ the cavalry. _

Kitty ignored you. "Sorry to intrude, but I just noticed that this is a one-person bathroom kind of deal and right now there are, like, three people here," she told him frankly, hands tucked into her yellow cardigan as she rocked back and forward on her heels. "You know, for a bar this size, there really should be two bathrooms, you know? Or at least a bathroom with multiple stalls."

The skeleton scrunched his face at her. "who the fuck are you?"

"My name's Kitty! Hi!" She stuck out a hand in front of her, waiting patiently for him to take it. He did not.

"that supposed to mean something to me? what the hell are you doing here?"

"Picking up my alcoholic friend." She leaned to the left, popping her head out around his arm and giving you a small wave. "Hi, friend."

He swiveled his attention back over to you. "_ friend?" _he echoed incredulously.

Your face flushed. "_ co-worker." _ you clarified, because you were an asshole who couldn't even admit to their would-be-assaulter they were friends were someone like Kitty. Also, she'd just called you an _ alcoholic, _which was uncalled for. Not that she was entirely wrong, but still. You weren't, like, addicted to drinking or anything, and you didn't like the idea of her introducing you to people as her addict friend.

Jesus Christ, your head was so fucking broken. _ That's _ what you were worried about? God, you really _ were _the worst, weren't you?

Behind Kitty, you could see a few monsters peering into the room, ears perked with interest. Part of it probably had to do with the fact that she was a human, but her girlish, pastel attire wasn't helping her, either. 

"Yup! Anyways, we should get going. It's awful late."

"you can leave anytime you'd like, girly," he snapped at her, eyes icy. The novelty of her appearance must've been wearing off, and you had the sinking feeling that she was seriously beginning to piss him off.

"I know," she replied, still smiling. She didn't move.

His grin twitched.

"look, doll," he began, his irritation with her audible with every syllable he gritted out. "i got business here right now. you can have 'em when i'm done, kay?"

"What kind of professional conducts their business in bathrooms?" she asked lightly, tilting her head at him quizzically.

He seemed thoroughly unamused by her playfulness. To be fair, you didn't find her quirks charming, either.

"you think you're smart or somethin', lady? jesus, back the hell off."

While his attention was on Kitty you shifted, edging across the wall till you were by his elbow. He didn't seem to notice. People often forgot about you when Kitty was in the room. She was small, but her presence occupied every space she was in.

God, she was annoying.

But right now she was trying to help you, even though you were constantly a jerk to her. She'd put herself into a potentially dangerous situation for you. There was no self interest behind it. 

You didn't understand her.

"It's okay that you're being rude to me because you're drunk and don't know any better," she said knowingly, eyes darting to meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to him. 

"you ain't being _ cute, _ you know. fuckin' _ pissing _me off."

"There's no need for foul language, Mister."

He gaped at her, seemingly at a loss of words.

"the fuck- _ jesus, _girly, get the fuck out."

“I told you already that I’m more than happy to leave _ with _my friend.”

“an _ I _told you,” he took a step towards her, enveloping her in his massive shadow as he blocked out the dim light of the bathroom with his body, “that ain’t happening.”

Kitty bit her lower lip and nodded once, slowly, shifting her backpack on her shoulders. “We seem to be at an impasse then, huh?”

“fuck off.”  
Instead of complying, she pulled a can of pepper spray out of her bag and sprayed him directly in the eyes.

Or the holes were his eyes were supposed to be, more accurately. You weren’t sure if the pepper spray is what did him in or the fact that she threw the can _ into his skull _when she was finished spraying. You didn’t stay around to find out.

The skeleton let out a violent howl of pain at being doused in the face a second time that night, clutching at his sockets as Kitty leaned across him, grabbed you by your forearm, and yanked you out of the bathroom. 

  
  
  


………………………

  
  
  


Kitty’s car smelled like pie.

Apple pie, specifically. If you didn’t know better, you’d have sworn she’d converted her car- an old, 1988 chrysler fifth avenue- into a bakery on wheels. You wouldn’t have put it past her, honestly. But when you’d accused her of it she’d laughed and explained that she’d gotten a little car air freshener from bath and body works and shoved it into the vents. Which had offended you, because purchasing a 12 dollar air freshener from the mall totally ruined the whole classic rock aesthetic of the car. The only thing that bothered you more was the assorted sailor moon memorabilia she’d stuck up on her dashboard, but, like, whatever. It was her car and she could ruin it however she wanted. 

You were dimly aware you were being ungrateful to her, but-

Actually, you didn’t have an excuse for why you were being a dick. You were just a bad person, apparently.

You stared out the frosted window and onto the mostly deserted, frigid street. Nausea rolled over you with every bump and rumble of the car below you and you pressed your forehead to the cool glass, squeezing your eyes shut.

_ Sweet Caroline _played on the radio, but Kitty had turned the music so far down it did little to fill the pervasive silence hovering between you. Kitty, usually so talkative, had not spoken to you in a little over ten minutes. She’d been vomiting words when you’d first gotten into the car, asking if you were alright at least a dozen times as you booked it out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Once you’d satisfied her with your assurances you were, indeed, fine, she’d moved on to questions, which you’d evaded answering. 

Anyways. She was quiet now. She must’ve thought you’d fallen asleep or something. 

You wished you had. You’d had _ quite a day _and you weren’t keen on analyzing any of it at the moment. But, as usual, sleep refused you. 

Instead you glanced discreetly over at Kitty, who was not smiling. Her face looked different without dimples, you thought. Older. You’d never asked her about her age, had you? Like, yeah, she dressed like a toddler, but she’d been working at the bakery for years before you showed up. She was probably twenty-three, twenty-four, though you’d always regarded her like- like a teenager or a kid or something. Certainly not someone with the balls to look a monster twice her size in the eyes. Not someone who’d risk her own skin to save your sorry ass from a homicidal skeleton.

The fucking _ skeleton. _

You didn’t want to think about him right now, you decided, snuggling deeper into your coat and letting out a small shiver. The fur tickled your cheek as the car rolled to a stop at the front of your apartment building. You closed your eyes again, waiting for her to ‘wake’ you so you wouldn’t have to explain your silence.

When nothing happened you opened your eyes again, stealing a look at her out of the corner of your eye.

She was hunched over, head resting on the steering wheel between her hands, and your stomach twisted uncomfortable at the sudden, overwhelming knowledge that you were witnessing something you weren’t supposed to see. Like someone had drawn back the curtain at a theater and exposed a bunch of actors getting dressed backstage. This was private. This wasn’t the performance. This was her getting ready to gon on stage, and she looked-

She looked- 

She looked _ tired. _

But then she sucked in a breath, sat back up, and turned towards you with a smile that appeared thoroughly genuine.

“We’re here!”

You realized you were supposed to be asleep and did your best to pretend to wake, squinting at her like you _ hadn’t _just been spying on her.

“Here?” you mummbled, trying to seem disoriented. It wasn’t really difficult, as this whole day felt like a fucking fever dream.

“Your apartment,” she explained. “Sorry to wake you up.”

You quickly pushed the door open before she realized you were bullshitting her, stepping out onto the cool night pavement. “‘S fine. I’m fine.”

Kitty leaned over into the passenger seat to try and look up at you. “You sure? You know, my offer still stands. I’ve got more than enough space at my house and again, it’s _ really _no problem if you want to stay the night.”

“No, it’s fine. Really_. _It’s fine.”

“You’ve had a tough day, and if you’re, like, traumatized-”

“I’m not_ traumatized,” _you cut her off, a little harsher than you’d intended. “I’m not traumatized,” you repeated, voice softening. “Just tired, ‘kay?”

You could feel her gaze on your neck, prickling and intrusive.

“... give me a call if you need anything, alright?” she finally said, and you nodded like you _ hadn’t _already decided you were never going to show your pathetic face around her ever again.

“Sure.” You closed the door with your hip and shoved your hands into your pockets, stalking off around the front of the car over to the sidewalk.

Her headlights were blinding, and you weren’t sure if they’d shocked something out of your system or whatever, but suddenly you felt a disarming appreciation for the small, pink haired girl who’d just dropped you off.

So you walked over to her door, waited for her to roll down the window, and then, very quietly;

“Thanks.”

Before she could respond you turned and headed into the building, face bright red.

  
  
  


………………………….

  
  


“Why the hell won’t you just _ come off? _” you hissed at your disgruntled reflection as you glared at the stupidly red splotch of color on your neck.

It had been nearly two weeks since the whole drunk skeleton incident, but the hickey below your jaw hadn’t faded whatsoever. You’d tried everything that wikihow article had suggested, from icing the abrasion for hours, applying aloe vera to your skin, taking pills, cold showers- you’d even resorted to rubbing a banana peel on your neck, as some idiot had suggested in the comments of the webpage. The mark was so vivid and so difficult to cover you’d started to run out of concealer.

It was getting to the point where you were actually concerned. Which was saying a lot, because you’d never been one to worry about- well, about anything, really. Perks of being a nilistist, you supposed. But this was genuinely making you anxious. Even Kitty had picked up on it, and Kitty was notoriously bad at reading signals.

Speaking of Kitty, you’d expected her to be weird around you after she’d helped you out of your- uh, your _ predicament- _but she’d acted as though that night had never happened. In fact, she hadn’t mentioned it at all. 

You didn’t know what she was playing at. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t change anything. You still didn’t like her. She was pretty much your exact opposite, in almost every sense of the word. Which wasn’t awesome for you, because she was objectivly a great person and that meant you were a terrible one. That was another reason you hated her, actually. She was everyhting you were not, and made you feel like shit for being the way you were.

The only person you liked less then her was yourself, but you didn’t want to get into _ that _at the moment. So you decided to think about something else, because you lacked the nerve to confront any of your problems. Was avoiding issues a destructive, unhealthy coping mechanism of yours? You’d think about it later. 

Another coping mechanism you’d just recently discovered; wearing stolen clothing. Specifically one article of stolen clothing.

That jacket. 

That stupid goddamn jacket.

You wore it, quite literally, every moment you were able to.

It hadn’t started out that way, of course. You’d wear it on the way to work and on the drive back, before shedding it off and tossing it onto your bed. But then you’d started wearing it at home, too, making excuses about the chill of your apartment to explain why you were bundled up in its soft fabric. 

Now you wore it to sleep, so. Yeah. 

You had a problem.

Wearing it was the only thing that brought you peace. It had become a security blanket of sorts, you supposed. You hated taking it off at work and as soon as you clocked out you’d slip it back on and wear it till you fell asleep watching fail compilations on youtube.

Normally such a habit would not bother you. You’d probably indulge it freely, just as you do with any other methods of coping you’d discover.

The problem was there were certain hazy, burning memories associated with the jacket that made you squirm. More than that, there was a certain _ grin _associated with the jacket, and it pissed you off.

It was a constant battle. You’d stare at the coat for at least seven minutes every day and try to convince yourself to throw it out, and as soon as you’d muster up enough resolve you’d find yourself zipping the jacket over yourself. 

You finally let out a groan of frustration as you gave up on masking the mark. It was futile, anyways, and you were just wasting your time worrying about it. It’d go away eventually, anyways, and if it didn’t- well, you supposed there were worse punishments in the world then having a permanent hickey on your neck.

You were still mad, though, and needed to blow off some steam. 

Not, like, _ sexually, _‘cause your love life was unfortunately dry, and you were more angry then horny, so you decided you’d let it out by blowing the heads off some zombies.

Digital ones, at least.

A half-empty container of ramen stood on your bed stand as you furiously button mashed the controller of your PS4. 

“COME AND FUCKING GET SOME, BITCHES,” you hollared at the screen as you unloaded round after round of bullets into the hoarde of infected chasing after your character. Playing _ Days Gone, _a game you’d bought only recently, had soon become your favorite pastime. Mostly because the main character was a biker with a dry sense of humor and you were a sucker for bikers with dark senses of humor.

Your jacket rode up on your elbows as your fingers flew across the controls, trying to manage the crowd of freaks you’d drawn down the hill with your gunshots. 

“GET BENT, FUCKERS!”

_ “Hey, can you shut up down there!” _ Micheal, the tenant in the apartment above yours banged on the floor. 

“Stop vaccumning at three in the morning and maybe I will!” you shouted back, not tearing your eyes away from the screen.

“_ I’ve got a date!” _

_ “ _Congratulations, she’s a lucky woman!”

“_ Thank you! Now be quiet _!”

You rolled your eyes, but decided to lower your volume anyways. You weren’t exactly looking to be kicked out of your apartment anytime soon. You were already in enough trouble with your landlady, what with you keeping a-

“_ Meow!” _

A ball of streaked fur suddenly darted across your room and leapt onto your bed, vaulting directly into your lap.

“Get off!” you hissed as the kitten scratched at your arms, causing your character to spaz out just as your enemies approached. “Oh my God, get off! I’m going to-!”

Your character’s screams cut you off and you watched in horror as he was eaten alive.

You hurtled a glare at the tiny cat blinking up innocently at you from your lap as you felt your temper simmered blisteringly hot.

“You are in _ big _trouble, mister.” You seethed through gritted teeth.

“Maow?” The cat simpered, as though he hadn’t just cost you hours and hours of gameplay.

You threw your remote back onto your bed, grabbing the cat by his stupidly fluffy scruff. You stormed into your living room with him, setting him down on your couch before turning to him with hellfire in your eyes.

“Look, _ buddy. _ I’m risking my ass just letting you stay here, okay? And you’re super pointless, so I don’t know _ why _I’m letting you stay here, but that’s besides the point.”

Your cat stared at you blankly. You rolled your eyes.

“If you want to live with me, we need to set down some ground rules, okay? First of all- Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you, first of all, you need to stop being such a picky little shit… Oh, you’re hungry?”

Your gaze followed the small cat, who had bounced over to his food bowl while you were speaking.

Oh, yeah. Food. You had sort of forgotten he needed to eat.

“You want some dinner?” You asked him, and he headbutted your leg affectionately. You pushed him away with your calf, retrieved some chinese takeout from your fridge, and dumped it into his bowl.

He sniffed at it for a moment, then turned his head away.

You scowled. “What, you don’t want General Tso’s? Well, that’s all we got, so suck it up.”

The cat sent you a grumpy look.

“Don’t be a brat. I’m not buying you fancy feast! Do you know how expensive that shit is? I’m broke as hell, I can’t afford that wet food BS.”

“Meow.”

“No.”

“_ Meow.” _

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not going to the grocery store just to buy you overpriced, factory made_ garbage _!”

“MEOW._ ” _

_ ……………. _

  
  


You shifted the fifteen pound bag of cat food in your arms grumpily, grunting as you dumped it into your grocery cart.

It was just a little after seven, now, and normally you’d be at home relaxing. Instead, you were _ outside, _ with other _ people, _in the most savage, cutthroat place in the world; the produce aisle of the grocery store. 

From afar the grocery store might’ve seemed like a relatively safe, family friendly place, but you knew better. You’d witnessed first hand just how ruthless and barbaric things could get here. It was every man for themselves out in the wilderness that was the grocery store, and survival of the fittest reigned king. 

During thanksgiving you’d once seen a blond woman grab another mother’s hair and yank her into the orange display just to get the last organic turkey, and other time someone had vomited in the canned aisle about four feet away from you. You normally steered cleared of all people in the store, not just because you didn’t like socializing, but because you feared for your life. And for good reason, too.

Most people had already bought ingredients for dinner, however, so the shop was mostly cleared out. There was the occasional shopper aimlessly wandering, of course, but besides that you seemed to be in the clear.

You let out a breath of relief you hadn’t realized you’d been holding at the sight of the uncrowded aisles. You did a quick check that your hood was covering the spot on your neck before heading off into the thick of the large store, pushing your cart in front of you life a shield.

The industrial, white light of the building glinted off the linoleum floor as your feet clipped against its unyielding surface. Money was tight and you had enough food at home to last you another paycheck, so all you were getting was the catfood and then you’d head right back-

Oh, was that on sale?

You found yourself drawn to the aisle besides yours, in which a large, yellow sign proclaimed there was a sale.

...Well, you supposed it couldn’t hurt to buy some extra food. Just a few things, essentials like eggs, milk, apples, ramen- 

Hey, pickles!

Nope, you needed to stop getting sidetracked. You didn’t have enough money to spend it on whatever impulsive buy you wanted…

… but surely you had enough for just one jar, right? 

You drifted into the condiment aisle with traitorous eyes that would surely betray your budget and your waistline at any given moment. You reached the pickles and settled your hands on your hips, eyeing the display with thrifty suspicion. You just needed to buy some good old pickles at a decent price, but not so cheap that you suffered the risk of eating poison.

You let out a soft hum as you surveyed your options, finally deciding on a massive jar of sweet bread and butter pickles. You stood on your tippy toes to attempt to reach the top shelf, but you were unfortunately just a head too short. You definitely wouldn’t have called yourself _ small _, but the shelves at the grocery store were always so insanely tall. 

You huffed in frustration and blew a stray strand of hair from your face, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you glared at the jar evading your capture.

You stretched one last time to your full extent, causing the sleeve of your too-big coat to slide down your forearm as your fingers just barely brushed the glass jar.

You somehow maneuvered it onto the very edge of the shelf, so that you just needed to prod it one more time and it’d come falling into your arms. You huffed, shifting to the very tips of your toes, almost there-!

“looks like someone's in a bit of a pickle,” a sickeningly familiar, low voice rumbled from behind you, and you let out a humiliating shriek as you fell off balance. You stumbled backwards,preparing yourself to crack your head open and bleed out.

But instead of hitting the floor you hit a broad chest and sturdy hands came to grip your shoulders, stopping you from toppling over. Your entire weight collapsed into the thing- or person- who had saved you, but the figure was unyielding.

Your hood fell off your head and revealed your flushed, thoroughly shocked face as you stared up at the smirking, darkly amused face of the person- or _ skeleton- _you’d thought you’d never see again.

“heya, princess.”

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're probably going to regret getting on his bad side.
> 
> Also, what do y'all suggest as a cat name? I've got a couple in mind but nothing I'm set on. I need HELP  
Adios for now, guys. I'll be back in a few days with more!


	4. Coats and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His voice was like burnt honey, Little Red Riding Hood thought.  
Sticky, smokey, slow and rich, dripping lazily through his razor-sharp, ravenous teeth.
> 
> "come a little closer."

“heya, princess.”

You gaped up at the skeleton with eyes the size of dinner plates, blinking furiously, like you couldn’t quite comprehend what you were seeing.

Your feet were touching the floor, but just barely. They were twisted at a strange, awkward angle, incapable of supporting any of your weight without causing you to break your ankles. He was the only thing keeping you up, as the entirety of your weight was slumped against his broad chest and honestly, he didn’t look the least bit fazed. 

Actually, fazed would be the last word you would use to describe the _ stupidly _smug, lazily smirking son of a bitch gazing down at you with heavy lids, his eyelights rolling down your disheveled figure with an ease that made your stomach hurt and your words catch in your throat.

Your fingers caught on the sleeves of his red sweater, twisting the soft fabric as you tried to steady yourself.

“Um,” you managed eloquently, swallowing hard around the lump that had formed in your throat.

His golden, wickedly sharp tooth glinted in the harsh industrial lights and suddenly the arms holding you felt less like support and more like bondage. 

“and here i was, thinkin’ you’d never fall for me,” he rumbled, cocking a brow at you and tilting his grin to the left. 

And the moment was over. 

Mortification spread across your features and you sucked in a shuddering, hot breath in through your teeth and shoved him away as though you’d been burned. You stumbling away clumsily, tripping over your own feet in your haste. 

Oh, God. 

Oh, what was _ that. _

“I didn’t- I was- you- fuck, I didn’t-” you stammered, your fingers flying to your burning cheeks as you tried to quell the adrenline currently overwhelming your senses. “God, I didn’t _ fall, _you just- you-”

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, smiling at you with a kind of morbid, perverse amusement, and that was enough to turn your shame into something more manageable. 

You took a deep breath through your nose and let anger fill your lungs before rounding on the skeleton. You were in a public space. With _ humans. _ He couldn’t just, like, _ kill _you right here. He was in your territory this time.

If by your territory you meant the condiment aisle of an albertsons, at least.

“What the actual_ hell _are you doing here?” You hissed as your fingers clutched at the unzipped sides of your jacket. 

“what do you _ think _i’m doin’ at a grocery store, princess?” he asked dryly, and your face went a shade darker in humiliation. He seemed to enjoy making you flustered. 

You backed up against the jars of pickles, trying to put as much space between you and the jackass as possible, and nearly knocked a massive jar of dill pickles to the floor while you were at it.

“I-” you choked. “I- fuck off, why don’t you?”

“mmn, well, since you asked so _ nicely, _” he hummed, leaning in and dropping his eyelids to half mast as he sized you up. 

You shivered and pulled your jacket tightly over your skin. “Fuck off _ somewhere that isn’t here, _” you spat.

“s’a public place, i don’ think ya got the authority ta be kickin’ me out, kid.”

No words would come. Apparently you were fresh out of snarky comebacks, which was kind of your one good defense mechanism. Now you were vulnerable; just a little human in a too-big coat trying to shy away from the big bad predator grinning down at you.

Your palms were sweaty.

“Shut up,” you responded, which was a sad excuse of a retort if you'd ever heard one. 

He let out a low laugh that did something to your stomach you weren’t proud of. “yer cute when you're scared shitless,” he remarked patronizingly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants and leaning back slightly. 

Your brow twitched in confusion. You’d fully expected him to be attack you, but now he seemed kind of- like, mildly dick-ish? 

Maybe he’d forgotten you. He’d been so drunk he’d totally forgotten about you. Maybe fate had finally felt guilty for constantly gut punching you and given you a moment of mercy.

“i’m kinda surprised ya haven’t tried ta run yet, if i’m telling the truth,” he hummed, tilting his head at you quizzically. “considering ya left in such a hurry last time.”

Okay. So he _ did _remember you.

That wasn’t great.

“By last time you mean the time you tried to assault me, right?” you asked, hugging your arms into your chest and sending him a sneer that hopefully didn’t betray your creeping anxiety.

“jesus, kid, i wasn’t gonna _ hurt _ya.”

“Kind of seemed like you were_ .” _

_“_seems to _me _like yer just stereotyping’ ‘cause ‘m a big bad monster. that’s racist, kiddo.”  
“You literally threatened to beat me to death.”

He shrugged, giving you a _ guilty as charged _smile that seemed to be his facsimile of sheepishness. “hey, i can’t be held accountable fer what i say when i‘m drunk.”

You made a face. “That’s like saying its not your fault if you kill someone just because you had a few beers too many.”

“but i didn’t kill ya, did i?” he reasoned, blinking down at you innocently.

You stared up at him in disbelief. He rolled his eyelights and sighed, pulling down the sleeves of his red sweatshirt down his wrists.

"i dunno what ya want me ta say. i didn't _ do _ anythin'. if my memory serves me right, _ yer _the one who got violent. you and yer fuckin’ freind just attackin’ people."

"She was just worried, and also, I'm not her friend."

"oh yeah, yer _ coworker,” _he corrected, voice dripping with sarcasm. Then, casually, "you a stripper or somethin'?"

Your face went slack. "_ What?" _

"a stripper,” he repeated, looking vaguely intrigued with your reaction. “you and yer friend."

"_ No.” _ Your face felt like it was on fire. _ “ _Oh my god, no, what the fuck?"

"then what the fuck was with all her- all the pink 'n the little, fuckin', like, cutesy shit? That's a sex thing, right?"

“Are you kidding me? She’s, like, a toddler. I don’t even think she knows how sex works. ‘Cause I thought it was a kink thing too, at first, but she’s genuinely clueless.”

“so you ain’t a stripper.”

“Have you been listening? Absolutely not.”

He shrugged. “could’ve fooled me.”

You choked on whatever you’d been planning on saying in response, heart skipping a beat and instead vaulting itself into your throat. You’d never had someone, like. _ Talk _to you like that. 

“I- _ excuse me?” _you managed, voice far squeakier then you would’ve liked it to be.

He shrugged again, giving you a noncommittal, all too smug smile, and tapped his fingers on his arm absently. “you got a vibe ‘bout you.”

You were fairly sure he was insulting you, but there was this look of mild appreciation in the crook of his jaw that made you question his intentions.

You decided he didn’t deserve a response and looked away, eyes falling upon the red, plastic cart lying sentient on the floor to his right.

Inside was about two dozen bottles of mustard and literally nothing else.

Your scowl faltered into something more curious and he seemed to notice the shift, following your skeptical gaze to the contents of his cart.

“... i like to stock up.”

“That’s a good, like, forty bucks worth of mustard,” you commented, a little impressed by the sheer _ nerve _he possessed to purchase, like, thirty gallons of mustard in one go. 

“hey, i ain’t said anything ‘bout _that_,” he retorted, jerking his head towards your cart, which was filled with cat food, ramen, pain killers, birth control, and, like, seven bottles of cheap wine. “you havin’ a party or somethin’?”  
If you could call getting wine-drunk and crying yourself to sleep a party, then yeah.

“Exactly _ how many _hotdogs are you eating a day?” you asked him instead, wrinkling your nose. “I don’t see how you could possibly justify purchasing that much mustard unless you consume hotdogs, like, religiously.”

“exactly how much booze you drinking a day?” he retorted, pointedly ignoring your inquiry. “you got a problem or something, princess?”

“Don’t call me _ princess.” _

“oh, did i hit a nerve, princess?”  
His eyes glinted suddenly, and your stomach sank. 

“I don’t-”

“i don’t think ya ever actually gave me yer name, didja?” He continued on as if you hadn’t spoken, leaning against the row of mayonnaise to your left.

“You’re right.”

There was a long silence between you.

“... you need a fucking tutorial or somethin’, kid?”  
“Yes.”

He let out a puff of air that smelled distinctly of cigarette smoke, straightened himself, adjusted the collar of his crimson sweater, and stuck out a bony hand towards you with a lazy grin.

“hi. ‘m sans.”

You stared at his outstretched palm for a moment.

“... like the font?”

His hand fell along with his smile. “_yes, _like the font,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “very creative.”  
“I was just _asking.”_

“what about you?”  
“What about me?”  
“name. you got a name, dontcha, kid?”

“No, actually.”

The skeleton- _ Sans- _seemed to be growing impatient with your cynicalism. Which wasn’t surprising, really. Most people found you funny for the first few minutes, and then you rubbed them the wrong way with your snark and they stopped speaking to you. Sans, however, didn’t seem particularly interested in leaving you alone.

“princess it is, then. unless you prefer _ bitch.” _

“Honestly, anything’s better then being named-”

“SANS!”

A deafening, flamboyant voice suddenly bellowed from a few aisles over suddenly boomed, loud enough to hurt your ears.

Sans’ grin immediately fell.

“oh, shit.”

Your stomach sunk, because he looked, like, _ nervous, _ and when a wolf looked nervous that meant there was something bigger and badder on the way. “What do you mean, _ ‘oh, shit’ _?”

He ignored your inquiry as crimson beads of sweat broke out on his skull. His sockets were blown wide and his eyelights had shrunk- because apparently that was something they could do- into tiny little pinpricks of scarlet. 

“shit. motherfuck, this ain’t good,” he mumbled, sucking in a hard breath between his teeth before stepping forward and placing his hands- hard, firm, _ warm- _on both your shoulders. “uh- okay, look, you gotta hide.”

Your eyes darted to his hand on your shoulder. “Hide? Why do I-”

“just _ shut up _ and listen to me, okay? or it’ll be both our asses.”

“I’m not going to-what? no! I’m not going to _ hide. _”

“SANS, WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT AISLE?” the voice said- or yelled, more accurately- and if he hadn’t already been white as a sheet Sans would’ve paled.

“uh- i’ll come to you, boss, give me a sec!” he shouted back, before spinning back towards you and giving you a look so hard your felt your blood turn cold.

“_ don’t move a fucking muscle till i get back, ‘kay?” _he whispered, sockets dark and voice so low you felt a little as though you’d just been punched in the gut. You nodded once, he removed his hand from you, and then-

You blinked.

He was gone.

Like, he’d literally disappeared in front of your eyes.

You stumbled backwards, hitting the rows of shelves and knocking over a plastic bottle of barbeque sauce. You hardly noticed, vision a little fuzzy and head spinning. Your brain couldn’t process what it’d just seen, and you were beginning to feel nauseous.

And then, from the aisle next to you-

“hey, boss.”

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING?”

“buying stuff.”

The voice made a noise of disgust. “I SAID NO MORE MUSTARD. THE SMELL IS PUTRID AND THE RATE AT WHICH YOU GUZZLE IT DOWN IS REPULSIVE.”

“whatever you say, papyrus.”

There was a small pause. 

“WHO WERE YOU SPEAKING TO?” The voice asked suddenly, followed by the sound of feet shifting uneasily.

“ah, no one.”

“DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME. DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID? I HEARD YOU WITH SOME… HUMAN.”

“i saw some doll earlier, but she’s gone. must’ve been someone else, huh?”

“IT BETTER HAVE BEEN.”

“why’s that.”

“YOUR ASSOCIATION WITH HUMANS IS ABSOLUTELY REVOLTING. THEY’RE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE, YOU KNOW.”

“sure, boss.”

The voice continued. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN SENSIBLE, BUT EVER SINCE WE’VE GOTTEN TO THE SURFACE, YOU’VE BEEN INCOMPETENT.”

“yeah, my bad.”

“I’VE EVEN HEARD YOU GAVE YOUR JACKET TO A HUMAN HARLOT. YOU TOLD ME YOU LOST IT, AND IT TURNS OUT YOU’VE GIVEN IT TO A- DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW BAD THIS MAKES US LOOK, SANS?”

You glanced down at your jacket as he spoke, a sinking, all consuming feeling of dread hitting your gut like you’d been shot. Your throat sealed itself as you gripped onto the shelf behind you for support and fumbled with the sleeves of your coat, the stolen, smokey, too-big jacket you’d gotten from-

From-

Oh, jesus.

For a painful moment of silence, Sans did not respond. He seemed to be debating what to say. Either that or whoever was yelling at him had, like, clubbed him to death, or something. 

“did you hear anything else?” Sans finally asked, voice even and careful. The voice didn’t seem to notice the short skeleton’s apprehension, however, and proceeded to shout away as though he was not in a small, mostly empty grocery store.

“DOES IT LOOK LIKE I WANT TO HEAR DETAILS ABOUT WHAT YOU DO WITH YOUR FEMALE COMPANIONS? OF COURSE NOT. I’M JUST SHOCKED YOU’D BE SO CARELESS. SLEEPING WITH A HUMAN IS ONE THING, BUT LETTING THEM WALK AROUND WITH YOU ON THEM IS JUST- HOW THE HELL DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN, SANS?”

“it ain’t like that, boss, i just-”

“I DON’T WANT YOUR EXCUSES, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”

“boss, i-”

“WERE THEY WORTH IT? DO YOU FEEL BETTER, NOW? DID SCREWING A HUMAN FINALLY FIX WHAT’S BROKEN INSIDE YOU?”

“i-”

“ANSWER THE QUESTION, SANS.”

Sans made a small sound, like he was choking on his own words. He couldn’t get them out. Stuck. Thick. Unspeakable. 

Finally-

So _ quietly _-

“...‘m real sorry, boss.”

“DOES YOU BEING SORRY HELP US, SANS?

“...no.”

“THEN I DON’T CARE.”

Neither of them spoke for a second.

“WELL. YOU’LL BE GETTING IT BACK SOON, I’M CERTAIN,” the big voice eventually started, sounding slightly less harsh then it’d been before. “WE CAN’T HAVE A HUMAN WALKING AROUND IN YOUR CLOTHES, AFTER ALL.”

“i’m workin’ on it right now, boss. i swear.”

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound promising for you, the person coddled inside said coat.

“HMMPH. I’LL BE IN AISLE SIX. BE AT CHECKOUT IN SEVEN MINUTES,” the voice commanded authoritatively, and you shrunk a little further into your jacket despite yourself. “THE PASTA AISLE IS WOEFULLY DISORGANIZED. HUMANS ARE TERRIBLY DISAPPOINTING.”

“yeah.”

“AND DON’T BUY ANY MORE MUSTARD OR I’LL CHOKE THE HP OUT OF YOU,” the voice shouted as it stomped away to the other end of the store, fortunately away from you. 

Less fortunate was the reappearance of the skeleton you’d apparently been fucked by, and the deadly, concerning look on his face.

“time to go, princess.”

You let out a yelp as Sans grabbed you roughly by the arm and dragged you into his chest, where your forehead bumped against his chin hard enough to hurt. 

“Hey, my stuff-!”

“no time, kid, you gotta get out of here. You ready?”

You were pressed flush against him and he smelled like smoke. Like your coat. How hadn’t you noticed before? “Ready for wha-?”

Before you could finish, there was a flash of crimson as you felt your stomach violently jerk in your abdomen, and you gasped as suddenly-

Nothing.

There were no words that existed in the human language to describe it. It was the absence of anything. The empty space between two atoms. It was the opposite of reality, like a blanket of light and darkness and something you were fairly sure no one should ever, ever see. Your brain was dissolving. It couldn’t understand what was happening and you could almost feel your sanity slipping away from him. There was just-

Nothing. 

Except him.

Him, solid and warm and holding you _ so tight. _Keeping you from falling apart into the void. He was in color, taniable, safe. So you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face into the front of his sweater, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to focus on the feeling of his ribs below your fingers and the scent of wood and cigarettes clinging to his clothes. 

And then you were standing outside.

You immediately doubled over and retched. At least, you would’ve doubled over and retched, had Sans not had an iron grip on you. Instead you groaned, pressing your forehead into his shoulder and trying to keep your feet from giving out under you.

“uh- hey, you good, kid?” you were vaguely aware of him speaking, but he sounded like he was underwater. Your ears were ringing and hurt from pressure that was non existent, and had you not been so used to feeling sick to your stomach you would’ve thrown up. 

“kid?”

The mark on your neck was throbbing with a low, achy pain that made thinking difficult. You breathed hard through your nose and clutched at the back of his sweater, bunching the soft knit between your fingers and trying not to cry at the physical toll being removed from existence had on a person.

“seriously, answer me.”

He was tense under you, but, like, who the fuck cared if he was uncomfortable? You’d just been through fucking _ space time. _

“i don’t know why you’re actin’ so, uh, sick. it usually doesn’t do that. it shouldn’t do that. i’ve done it on people before and they’re always fine. you alright? you should be alright. fuck, talk to me here, huh, princess? you’re freakin’ me out.”

“Shut the hell up,” you mumbled into his sweater, which effectively shut him up.

He was warm and it was so cold out. And he was soft. How the hell was he soft? He was literally made of bones. But he was so sturdy and comforting, like a heavy blanket during a thunderstorm. 

You couldn't remember the last time you'd hugged somebody. Not since your old man had died, probably. Which was like, what, six years ago? Before college. You didn't fucking know. When you still actually cared about forming meaningful relationships with the people around you. Before touching people freaked you out.

He wasn't even hugging you back, you realized. Just kind of standing there and taking it. Men didn't often know how to console people in distress, and apparently monsters were no different.

Whatever. This wasn't about him. This was about you regaining your sanity before it crumbled.

"...kid, look, i-"

He cut himself off. He sounded very much uncertain of himself, which made you feel good in some perverted, twisted way. Not as good as his sweater on your cheek was making you feel. You'd expected him to be wearing something rough, but his shirt was blissfully soft. 

He gave you two awkward pats on your back, his other fingers drumming on your hip bone. 

“... much as i hate to cut this short, sweetheart, i got family inside and he ain’t gonna be happy if he sees me ‘round you,” he finally murmured, and you scrunched up your nose at his chest.

You peeled yourself off him and took a few stumbling steps backwards, face burning as your headache dulled and you realized you’d just _ hugged _him. For like, a long time. What the fuck was that about?

A better question; where the fuck were you?  
You’d just been standing in the grocery store, and now you were outside in the mostly deserted parking lot, about a meter away from your motorcycle. 

“What the hell was that?” you asked, clutching your jacket into your chest and glancing around, bewildered, at your surroundings. You felt like you were going to throw up again.

“shortcut.”

“A _ shortcut?” _you echoed, louder than necessarily warranted. You needed to sit down.

“that’s what i said, isn’t it? just, like, monster shit.”

“You have monster _magic?”__  
_ “‘s not _magic,” _he said, almost defensively. “you humans think everything ya can’t understand is magic. ‘s just something i can do.”

“Monsters can fucking _teleport?”__  
_ “_no. _jesus, do you listen? it’s something _i _do. an’ usually people don’t _freak out _when i bring ‘em along. i dunno why you’re all, like, spooked.”

“Hmmn, maybe because you just ripped a hole into the fucking _ space time continumun _and dragged me into it or something.”

Sans threw up his hands in defeat. “look, you ain’t dead. it all worked out, calm down.”

“Calm _ down? _ Jesus _ christ, _you’re actually telling me to calm down right now?” you shrieked, backing up until your knees hit your bike. 

“whoa, hey, ‘m just sayin’ you look like you’re gonna, like, explode. deep breaths, yeah?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a _ child. _Just- just get the hell away from me.”

Sans wiped a hand down his face and exhaled a long, hot breath through his nose before fixing his eyelights back on you, weary. “Kid,” he started slowly, like you were some sort of cat stuck in a tree and he was trying to coerce you down. “i’d _ like _to leave ya alone, but we’ve got business together now, ‘kay?”

Your brow twitched. “Business? I don’t-”

He pointed at his own neck, tapping the vertebrae there and nodding his head at you in response. You mirrored him, hand raising up to touch the hickey on your neck- the hickey he’d _ given you, _appearently, because why the fuck not- and your scowl faltered.

“It’s just a fucking hickey. I don’t even _ remember _ anything about that night, you know. Just ‘cause we, like-” you looked away momentarily, cheeks pink, “- hooked up or whatever, doesn’t mean we have to _ be _anything.”

“for humans, maybe.”

That didn’t sound great.

“What do you _mean, _for humans?”  
Sans swallowed. “monsters are different, is all ‘m saying.”  
“Different in what way, Sans?” you voice sounded almost threatening now.

“different like-” he seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “like- ya said we had _ magic, _right? ‘s just like, uh. how yer walking ‘round in my clothes right now. ‘n it ain’t like ‘m,” Sans’ gaze swept over you for a moment and his words seemed to die on his teeth. But then his eye lights flickered back to your face, and the sight of your scowl he appeared to gain coherent thought once more “i ain’t complaining or anything, but people see ya wearing my stuff ‘n they gonna start assuming things.”

“What, you’re the only person in the world with a black, fur lined jacket?”  
“they’re gonna _know, _alright, kid? i dunno how else to explain it. they’re gonna know. monsters can just tell.”

“Good thing I don’t make a habit of spending time with monsters then, huh?” _ or anyone, for that matter. God, you were such a loser. _

He rolled his eyelights and made a low noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “Whatever, princess. i just need my coat back.”

You hugged your jacket- his jacket- into your chest and made a face. “You _ need _it?”

“pap is lookin’ fer it. yeah, i need it back.”

You tried taking another step back, forgetting you were already pressed flat against your bike. “I don’t-”

“look, kiddo, if i don’t get it back it’ll be both our asses. we can sort out the whole, uh-” he gestured towards your neck. “-the mark thing later.”

Something swelled in your throat at the thought of having your coat stripped from you. Something insurmountable and violent and scarier than a tsunami. Something that felt a little like the beginnings of a panic attack, actually. Which wasn’t great, as your last panic attack a few months ago had ended with you in the hospital for alcohol poisoning.

'Cause that's how you coped with stress. Booze. 

But there wasn't any booze here. Just you, a too big jacket, and an even bigger skeleton demanding you return what you'd taken from him.

It was just a stupid jacket. It'd be so easy to just hand it over and get this fucker out of your life forever. So easy. 

Just take it off.

Take off the coat.

...take it off.

Jesus, why weren't you taking it off?

"Don't got all night here, princess."

"No."

You’d said it before you’d even decided to speak and almost immediately, you understood that you’d just made a bad, bad choice.

His smile tightened. "no?"

Uh oh. Oh, yeah, no, he seemed mad. "I won't wear it out, okay? I just- it's, like, warm, and I'm keeping it, okay?"

"kid." 

He was definitely about to strangle you and take the jacket off your dead body. “I promise, I’m just- like, it’s random, but I can’t give it to you, alright?”

“that right?”

“Your boss!” you burst suddenly, and his temper seemed momentarily forgotten in the face of your abrupt change of subject. “If you didn’t have your jacket five seconds ago and come back with it on he’s gonna know you got it from someone nearby, right? And you said that’d be bad. For you and for me.”

He did not reply, so you continued to let words tumble from your lips.

“Just- if you go inside and grab my groceries for me real quick I’ll leave the jacket at- like, I’ll drop it off at that bar, and then you can come pick up up and you’ll never see me again and your boss won’t know who I am and he won’t think you’re associating with- with humans or whatever. Yeah?”

The entire time you’d been rambling Sans had stayed still, gazed fixed down on you. Now you were done he remained motionless, apparently mulling over your suggestion.

There was a beat.

Another.

Then-

“how do i know ya won’t just run off again as soon as i go inside and never hold up your end?” he asked, the left side of his face obscured by shadows.

“I won’t.” Even to your ears, your promise sounded empty.

“how about you give me somethin’ of yours, an’ i’ll give it back ta you when ya give me back what belongs ta me?”

You dug your nails into your palms. “Like what?”

“how ‘bout your phone?”  
You gaped up at him. “I’m not giving you my phone.”  
“then give me my jacket right now,” he continued, cold. “you’ll get it back in like, a day. i’ll be waiting at grillby’s fer ya tomorrow, say, like, six, an’ we’ll do a trade.”

Were you _ really _about to give up your five hundred dollar smartphone for a stupid, thriftstore, too big stolen snow jacket? 

You narrowed your eyes up at him.

“Deal.”

You handed him your phone and he plopped it into his pockets, still staring hard at you.

“i’ll be out in, like, five minutes with your shit,” he stated, rolling his neck to the left. His vertebrae popped unpleasantly and you made a face of disgust. “don’t run off, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”  
“i’m fucking serious. you try to leave an’ i’ll find ya and break your legs, yeah?”

And before you could answer, he’d popped out of existence again, leaving you alone with spots dancing before your eyes.

  


…………….

  


“okay, princess, i got your fucking pickles,” Sans called, disgruntled as he shifted the plastic bags in both his hands.

He’d taken a little longer than he’d intended, after being intercepted by Papyrus and having to make an excuse to the lanky skeleton about why he was buying human birth control and four bottles of red wine. 

Birth control. How often were you having sex?

A follow-up question: why did the thought of you being fucked by other people piss him off so much?

Hell if he knew. Lots of things pissed him off. _ You _ pissed him off. Riled him up like no one else. But, like, you were cute when you got mad at him, so he’d deal with you for now. Until he could clean up the mess he’d made with the whole _ marking you _thing.

God, you looked good with him on you. With his teeth marks in your skin, his big coat on your tiny, soft little human frame, his smell all over you. Fuck, he felt dizzy just thinking about it. 

You’d be so fun to play with, if only you didn’t hate him so much. The way you looked at him now was so different then when you’d first met. He could tell you wanted him to drop dead where he stood, but, like, you’d also gone and hugged him today, which had made him feel vaguely itchy and kind of warm inside in a way he didn’t know how to describe. 

Ugh. Papyrus was right. You really _ were _screwing with his head. The sooner he was done with you the better. 

He mustered up an easy smirk and lifted his head towards you, preparing to level some sort of insult or quip or something dry and a little mean your way, except you weren’t there.

He dropped the bags onto the ground, staring with empty sockets at the vacant space where your motorcycle had been occupying as his grin was wiped off his teeth. 

“goddamn it.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ignore the white stuff on my mouth that's just powdered sugar i promise  
anyways a Sans pov! And Papy! We're sticking with the whole 'everyone is an asshole' theme for this chapter, as you can tell.  
I haven't written any of the next chapter, tho, so I'll let y'all chose what you want to see.  
1\. Another Sans POV  
2\. More Kitty bullshit  
3\. flashbacks to drunken shenanigans  
4\. the reader literally getting hit by a truck and dying 
> 
> anyways let me know. i live to serve.  
adios until next weekend^^


	5. Cigarettes and Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which sans can't move on, you get shitfaced, and everyone else is left to pick up the pieces
> 
> aka sans is horny as fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving y'all what you wanted
> 
> also this is the chapter that gives this work its rating, because it's a snas pov and he's got a filthy imagination and a filthier mouth.

It was six forty-three, Sans was wasted as fuck, and you were nowhere in sight.

Honestly, he wasn't sure what else he expected. He definitely hadn't expected you to show up, but, hey. Any excuse to get drunk, right?

He wiped a heavy hand down his face and let out a low groan, blinking, disoriented, at the glass of booze cradled in his big hands.

He was so _ fucked. _

In, like, a number of ways. 

Sans was usually always in some kind of trouble, 'cause he was irresponsible and had this nasty habit of pissing off the wrong people. Generally he could shirk the consequences of his petulance and violent tendencies, but when the consequences of such actions had two legs and a nasty attitude like you did, things got significantly more complicated.

He scowled down at his now empty glass, sticking two fingers in the air to wave down Grillby for a refill.

The fiery monster had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and as he approached, Sans was hit by a wave of crackling, low heat. 

_ "You should sober up," _Grillby crackled, which was concerning, because Grillby never wasted the opportunity to sell more booze to people who were too wasted to know better. 

Sans tipped his glass onto its edge with the pad of his index finger, mouth twitching downwards.

"s'no fuckin' point. she ain't comin'."

Grillby's flames flickered. "_ You're surprised?" _

"if she knew what was fuckin' good fer her she wouldn't try and run every time i turn my goddamn back," he growled, something deeply predatory reverberating in the empty space behind his ribs. 

Last night he'd sworn to snap your legs in half if you ditched him. Now he was starting to think he should've broken them as soon as he'd spotted you, so you'd stop fucking _ running _from him. He could've done pretty much whatever he wanted to you after that. Lock you up and play with you till he got bored and then take your SOUL out and leave your body on the side of the street.

It wouldn't be a very nice thing to do. But he'd done worse to better people, so why would it be any different with you? Just 'cause you were cute?

Fuck that. Fuck you and your stupid little sneer and your tiny soft hands and your smart, filthy mouth.

Fuck your mouth. 

God, he’d _ love _to fuck your mouth.

It'd shut you up for a few minutes, that's for sure. Might even suffocate you. And it'd be all hot and wet and sexy and maybe you'd even cry a little. He wanted to make you cry. Was that bad? Probably. But it wasn't like you didn't deserve it. 

You got to him in a way that made his stomach hurt, with your stupid face and the soft, anxious little twitch of your lip as he antagonized you. He wanted to wipe the glare off your face. Punch you in your pretty teeth or maybe kiss you till your face went blue from oxygen deprivation. Tuck you in his arms and keep you nice and warm, fuck you against a wall. Mark you up so bad no one would ever want you again. Carve his name into your skin with his goddamn teeth.

His fingers curled around nothing as he let out a soft, wounded sound in the back of his throat and pressed his forehead against the bar besides his drink.

God, he was so _ fucked. _

"... _ If you're into humans, I can have something arranged." _

Sans lifted his head just enough so he could raise his crimson eyelights to meet Grillby's gaze.

"i don’t want another human.”

“_ She can’t have _ possibly _ been that good. There’s humans everywhere. I know a few girls who have excellent reviews, and they aren’t half as much trouble as your friend.” _

“‘s not that.”

_ “Then what’s this about?” _

Sans squeezed his drink hard enough it was a miracle it didn’t shatter. There was this certain kind of fog at the front of his skull he didn’t know how to shake, and it was starting to hurt. 

“can’t have her walking ‘round in my jacket, can i?” he mumbled without any particular conviction, gazing at his cloudy reflection in his now warm glass.

“_ I mean why did you give it to her in the first place? I never thought you’d part with it before you handed it over to her.” _

“got caught up in it, i guess. i don’t know. i was shitfaced an’ tryin’ to get into her pants."

Which was true, but not why he'd given it to her.

"an’ yeah, the kid’s cute, but a bitch an’ i’m fucking tired of runnin’ after her.”

“_ Then forget her and find some other human to fuck.” _

Sans glared at the haggard looking skeleton staring back at him through the warped edges of his angular cup, teeth twitching in irritation. 

"thanks for the input, pal,” he gritted out, words dripping with sarcasm. “ever think maybe it’s not your business?”

“_ Look, Sans. I’m telling it to you straight. If she's going to let you keep her phone just so she doesn't have to see you again, that probably a good sign she doesn't want you." _

"i don't give a _ fuck _if she wants me or not,” he burst in a fit of blistering, bone chilling aggrivation, and had Grillby not been so familiar with the volatile skeleton’s temper, he might’ve feared for his life. Things being the way they were now, the fire monster didn’t flinch.

Sans sucked in a hard, shuddering breath, squeezing his sockets shut and uncurling his trembling fists. If he had blood, it'd be roaring in his ears. If he had ears, that is.

“... i just need my jacket back," he finally continued, softer then before. "if paps sees her in it he's gonna lose his mind. n' that's just the jacket. he finds out i marked her up an' i’m dust."

Grillby did not reply right away. He'd been abnormally talkative today, and Sans had the feeling he'd run out of things to say. 

What was there to be said, anyway? Neither of them was much for advice. 

Sans tugged a half-empty pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and let one roll in between his index finger and his thumb idly.

After a few moments of quiet reflection, he slanted his teeth to the left and leaned over the bar to press the unlit butt of his cigarette to Grillby's fiery forearm. The bartender hardly seemed to notice, even as Sans pulled his now smoldering cigarette back, flicked the ash off the tip, and took a long drag.

He exhaled, thin, opaque spirals of smoke curling out of his nose and eye sockets

_ "Neat," you breathed in awe, leaning forward and peering into his smoldering socket with morbid curiosity _.

_ He let out a small laugh and blinked, severing the stream of smoke and making your mouth fall open despite yourself. _

_ He held out the cigarette towards you expectantly, and your gaze flickered to the gently glowing, crimson tip that looked strikingly similar to his eyelights _

_ "... I don't smoke," you declined, almost regretfully. He was a little surprised by that, seeing as you had no problem downing glass after glass of whatever drink he'd bought you. _

_ He shrugged it off and took another puff. "first time for everything." _

_ "I actually like not having lung cancer, thanks." _

_ You watched him as he let another cloud of smoke escape, this time through his teeth. Neither of you spoke for a moment. _

_ Finally, like you couldn't help yourself, "... How does it taste?" _

_ "good." _

_ "Huh." _

_ He regarded you with a heavy gaze as your eyes fixed on his mouth with a kind of irresponsible, pervasive intrigue you couldn't seem to shake. _

_ And before he knew what was happening, you leaned forward and snatched his cigarette away. He made a small noise of protest, but it was cut short as you replaced what you'd taken with a bruising kiss. _

_ Before he could even react you'd pulled away, running a tongue over your red, red lips, brows furrowing thoughtfully. _

_ "... tastes different then I thought it would," you mused, still clutching his cigarette inbetween your fingers. _

_ Sans grabbed your hand and brought it down to the ashtray, stubbing out the cigarette and letting it drop before crashing his mouth to yours. _

  


Sans smothered the end of his now short cigarette in the bottom of his empty glass and pushed it away, blowing out his last inhale of smoke with a quiet kind of despondency he didn't know how to cure.

There was a sudden, aching kind of loneliness that filled the space the smoke had occupied. There was a bitterness in his mouth that spread through his bones, lingering uncomfortably in the crevices of his joints.

He plucked your phone out and set it on the bar beside him, staring down at your lockscreen- a picture of a small, rotund cat with a milky left eye- as a dog howled along mournfully to the soft guitar crooning from the speakers in the corner.

He didn’t even know your name. All he had left of you was your phone, which was password protected and wasn’t being partiucalrly helpful at the moment. The city was so big and you were so small. It’d been a miracle he’d found you last time, and he doubted his luck was going to last. It never did.

His fingers curled around your phone tightly and set his jaw, a sudden wave of _ determination _washing over him. 

He didn’t need luck. 

One way or another, he was going to find you.

…….

  


It was six forty-seven, you were wasted as fuck, and currently blowing off a monster with the very real capacity to rip you in half with his bare hands.

You'd been to this bar before. It was only a few blocks away from your apartment, so the convenience was too much to resist. You’d been here so many times, in fact, the bartender knew you by name. Which might not seem like much, but there were, like, five people in your life who actually knew your real name, and you worked with two of them, so that hardly counted. 

What could you say? You didn't have all that many friends. Or any friends at all, really, because you had a garbage personality and didn't know how to talk to strangers without throwing up from the anxiety.

Ugh. You shouldn't be drinking. At least, not in public. You had a few bottles of vodka at home, so there really wasn't any need to waste gas just to get absolutely wrecked in front of other people.

But drinking alone was kind of sad. Not that anyone would _ know _ you were drinking alone, but while the idea of getting drunk in the comfort of your own bed in your underwear _ sounded _appealing, it always made you more depressed then relaxed.

Actually, drinking in general depressed you, now. Or maybe you were always depressed and the drinking just didn't help things. Whatever. Did it matter?

The bartender- you couldn’t remember if his name was David or Daniel, even though you saw him regularly- refilled your glass with your favorite drink and this time you actually tried to savor it, instead of throwing it back like you had with the last two drinks. Your head was starting to feel spongy and you understood that you could probably only have one or two more drinks before you passed out. Might as well make them last, right?

Your hand absently slipped into the pocket of your big, warm coat, clutching at air.

Your mouth twisted unpleasantly. For a moment, you'd forgotten you didn't have your phone anymore. You'd traded your six hundred dollar phone and all the irretrievable information on it for a beaten old snow jacket four sizes too big that smelled like cigarettes.

You let out a soft, hot breath against the lip of your drink and squeezed your eyes shut tight.

You really were stupid.

Well, no, that would be an understatement. You were an alcoholic idiot way in over their fucking head and if things kept up the way they were now, you'd be dead before your next paycheck. Your new skeleton buddy would make sure of it. 

Stupid skeleton. Why the fuck had you slept with him?

Like, yeah, you'd been blackout drunk, but c'mon. Sleeping with an actual _ skeleton? _Even wasted, you weren't a necrophiliac. Why had you let him-

You didn't remember. Yeah, you had vague memories of a steamy makeout sesh, but sex? No. It'd been a full year, almost- longer, maybe- since the last time you'd fucked anything that wasn't your fingers, so you were certain boning a skeleton (haha) would be something you'd remember. 

How would that work, anyway? He was all bones. Bone. Boner. Haha. 

Fuck.

God, you were so _ fucked. _

  


_ "Fuck," you breathed, head rolling back against the door and brows knitting together as wickedly sharp teeth made their way down your neck. You felt vaguely dizzy, and had it not been for the hands clutching at the softness of your waist you might've toppled over. _

_ If you could just get to your bed- _

_ But you doubted he'd let you get that far. His arms were caging you in, pressing in on you, pinning you down. _

_ A hot mouth at your collar. A small, entirely involuntary, obscene sound was coaxed out of your throat and he let out a low, rumbling groan that did certain, filthy things to you. _

_ "feels good?" _

_ "Fuck," you responded eloquently, fingers curling in the back of his sweater. _

_ You felt his teeth, sharp and predatory, against your throbbing pulse point, and the realization that he could tear your throat out at if the urge struck him sent a wave of shuddering adrenaline down to your spine. _

_ "... i asked you a question, princess." he whispered, voice a little hoarse, and you felt a lump swell in your throat. _

_ "... feels good." _

  


"You good?"

You jerked back to reality, nearly toppling off your barstool. You righted yourself at the last moment and blinked fervidly as you eyes focused in on the angular, tanned jaw of your bartender concernedly repeating your name.

"...yeah. Just thinking."

(And by _ thinking _ you meant having a drunken sex fantasy, of course.)

Daniel- no, David, you thought- didn't seem convinced. You weren't sure if it was because you looked like you'd just been hit by a bus or because you'd just gone catonic for a few minutes, but he seemed genuinely worried about your well being. "Let's get you some water, huh?"

You furrowed your brow. "Free?"

"On the house."

"Boo. More vodka."

He exhaled patiently. "I really don't think that's a good idea, honey."

"'M not paying you for your ideas, Dave, I just want booze."

"... my name is Steven."

Oh.

"Steven. Yeah, I know. Sorry. I'm really fucking drunk right now."

"... Do you want to call a cab or something?"

"I can't. I gave my phone to a talking skeleton so I could keep the snow jacket I stole from him after we fucked."

Steven pursed his lips and nodded once, and it came to your attention that he didn't believe a word you were saying. You _ wished _you were making it up, honestly. Wished it was all just another liquor fueled fever dream and you’d wake up alone in your room. 

Did most people look forward to waking up in bed alone? 

Whatever.

“I think it’s time for you to go home. I'll call you an uber."

…….

Steven paid for your cab. Apparently you frequented that bar enough he felt it was only fair. You would've resented his kindness if you hadn't been so drunk, but it saved you money, so whatever, you supposed.

Surprisingly, you weren't all that hungover the next day, which was a blessing, seeing as the bakery had just started offering pumpkin flavored treats and the shop was packed.

Kitty was currently skittering around behind you and attempting to brew coffee, finish frosting the newest batch of caramel apple cupcakes and man the second register simultaneously. She was surprisingly good at multitasking, but there was only so much that woman could do. Her pink buns had begun to unravel into pigtail around her flushed, freckled face as she hustled, still somehow managing to deliver each customer a faithful smile and a friendly _Have a wonderful day _to their retreating backs. 

The shop was filled with the chatter of the early afternoon rush as the whine of coffee pots whistled from behind the counter. The air was heavy with the scent of delicate vanilla and warm autumn spices from the pastries steaming on the cooling rack, although you'd gone nose blind to the smell by now. 

“Good morning, what can I get for you?” You greeted in your obligatory cheerful customer service voice. A businessman with a square face and a nose that looked like it didn’t have time for your interruptions stared down at you with an impatient frown.

“A black coffee and a pumpkin muffin,” He said blandly, eyes flicking to Kitty as her bun finally collapsed down her shoulder. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, but we actually ran out of pumpkin muffins,” You apologized, a hopefully convincing facsimile of sympathy spreading across your face. “But we have an apple spice muffin that I think you’d really-”

“What do you mean, you ran out of pumpkin muffins?” The man asked with a curl of his lip. “It says you have pumpkin muffins on your menu.”

You twitched. “Yes, but unfortunately we ran out this morning.”

“You ran out?”

You felt your own patience wearing thin and resisted the urge to ask if his hearing was impaired. “Yeah. It’s our most popular fall flavor, but-”

“You’re all out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t just- just, make more?”  
You gave him a smile so polite it hurt. “The owner does most of the baking in the morning, and he’s out right now. However, we have a lot of other really good-”

“Just the coffee, then,” He interrupted, like it was _ your _fault someone had bought out all the pumpkin muffins.

You grit your teeth.

“Of course.”

You grabbed a cup off the stand a little more forcefully than strictly necessary and scribbled the details of his order on it before sliding it off in Kitty’s direction. 

The man walked over to the pickup line without a glance in your direction, the sound of his well-polished boots clipping against the pink tile seemed painfully loud. You glanced forward at the group of people- so many _ people- _ ahead of you, all caught in a line that you couldn’t even see the end of.

You resisted the urge to scream.

Maybe you could just tell Kitty you needed to use the bathroom. She could take over for a while as you threw up in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. Then again, Kitty was already swamped and you had a feeling she’d implode under the sheer weight of baked goods she needed to tote around without you. 

And- well, contrary to popular belief, you weren’t _ heartless. _Leaving someone like Kitty alone to deal with hungry, rich people in the city would be like leaving a sheep in the middle of a pack of ravenous, feral wolves. They’d tear her apart.

So you swallowed down the bile rising up your throat and called up the next customer.

An hour passed and the herd of people had thinned, and so had your patinece. The only thing keeping you from snapping was the knowlage that your lunch break was coming up in fifteen minutes. 

Ugh. It couldn’t come soon enough. Why the hell did you apply for a profession that required social interaction? 

(Because it was the only place that had actually accepted your job application after being fired from your old job).

If you had the funds, you’d quit. But you were a little bit broke as fuck, with nearly all your paycheck going towards your rent and maintaining your motorcycle, as well as your weekly trips to bars. Besides, this cafe was thriving, and you got pretty good tips on days as busy as this.

Your life could be worse, you thought as you absently rang up another customer’s box of sugar cookies. Your prospects might’ve been bleak, but at least you had things you loved.

Your bike, for example. Your cat. Your jacket.

… that was about it.

You couldn’t wait to get back to your apartment and slip into your pajamas, and maybe take a nap with Catsby. Or kill yourself, whichever came first. At this point, you honestly didn’t have a preference.

You shook it off and returned to your station to find Kitty sweating profusely as she attempted to calm down a stout woman who’d started swearing at her for not accepting her severely expired coupon. Kitty was a mess of muffled apologizes and stammering suggestions as the customer snarled at her, and you began to understand why your boss had never put Kitty at the main register.

As much as a part of you wanted to sit back and watch your co-worker fail, you decided that it was just a future a little too harsh for the perfect woman.

You shoved Kitty aside, causing the ruffled pink pleats in your absurdly cute apron to swish against your thighs as you somehow summoned a sticky sweet smile onto your face. 

“Hi, sorry, my friend doesn’t usually man the front. What seems to be the issue here?” You asked with a genuine sense of helpfulness, as though solving this woman’s petty problems was what you wanted to do on a Friday afternoon.

After politely explaining to the woman the store policy and suggesting a deal Westly had implemented that week (buy two cupcakes and get a free coffee) the woman calmed down a little and begrudgingly bought the cheapest thing on the menu. 

You sighed and turned away, wiping your hands on your pink, frilly apron. 

“”M heading to the back. Is the microwave still broken?”

“Ah, we replaced it over the weekend,” Kitty responded distractedly, filling up a mug with spiced milk foam.

You nodded and found the breakroom, slinging off your apron and trading it for the snowjacket you’d left in your locker. You popped your lunch into the unfmailar microwave and proceeded to sit back on the small, floral loveseat pushed all the way into the back of the small room and let out an exhale so heavy it was palpable.

Above the microwave was a small corkboard with an attractive Polaroid of Kitty, beaming, and the words _ Employee of the month _bellow it.

You scowled. Kitty had been employee of the month every month since you'd started at this job. It made sense, obviously, because she was undoubtedly the best employee at the bakery, but her uncle Westly also owned the bakery, so, like. Nepotism and all that.

You looked away. You weren't going to let Kitty spoil another break for you. You were going to relax, eat your leftovers, and not worry about work or the fact that you had a violently tempered skeleton monster on your tail.

Everything was going to be fine.

No skeleton was going to find you here.

  


……..

  


Kitty watched you stumble into the break room and shut the door, gaze lingering perhaps a beat longer then it should’ve, before she turned back to the cupcake display and boxed up a pink velvet cupcake for a tall, fluffy-haired man that had just waltzed in.

He thanked her with a dazzling smile and shoved a wrinkled twenty dollar bill into the tip jar. Her own smile faded as she furrowed her brows, uncertain if she’d seen it correctly- maybe it was one of those elusive 2 dollar bills her dad used to collect, because people generally didn’t leave a _ 20 dollar tip _for a three dollar cupcake- and pulled it out to squint down at it.

Yup, that was twenty bucks. What drew her attention, however, was the phone number scrawled across the bill in red ink. 

Kitty stared at the numbers for a moment in silence, before her face abruptly went as pink as her now frizzy hair. She yanked her head back up to the door, eyes wide, but he’d already left.

She glanced back down at the numbers clutched between her small, freckled hands, and for a fleeting moment, considered pocketing it.

Then, with a slightly rueful twist of her lips, she folded the money up and tucked it back into the jar.

Maybe she’d find the bill later and put his number in her phone. But she couldn’t just _ take _tips out of the jar, even if they’d been meant for her. That would be like stealing from you, as the money in the tip jar was counted up at the end of the week and split between you and her. It wouldn’t be fair to take any now. And though you’d never said anything, she could tell by the wrinkles you got between your brows when Westley gave you your paycheck that money was tight. 

… and besides. 

Kitty wasn’t really interested in a relationship at the moment. She was a little too invested in somebody else.

_ Ring! _

She glanced up as the doorbell chimed pleasantly and a small, wiry kid who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, maybe fourteen, stepped in, wearing an expression far too somber for a child their age. They were wearing a thick, too-big striped sweater and had black lashes almost obscured by their deep brown bangs as they surveyed the cafe warily, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Hi!” Kitty greeted brightly, standing up a little straighter.

They gave her a small, expressionless nod of acknowledgment before turning to peer back out the door they’d just entered through and waving their hands at someone outside. 

They held open the door open with the toe of their small boots, and Kitty had to blink twice to make sure her round eyes were seeing things correctly as a towering, lanky skeleton in a brilliant red scarf ducked through the doorway into the cafe.

He met Kitty’s eyes.

  
  


“... IT’S RUDE TO STARE.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn.  
poor reader can't catch a break and neither can anyone else in this broken fic i've manhandled.
> 
> Sorry this update is like a week late. I mean, like, I never promise I'm going to update at a certain time but I've been posting every weekend, except for this last one. I think the next one will be up by next saturday and yes, it's going to be a *frisky* chapter.  
Also, would you guys like me to post a bunch of skelebabe imagines/drabbles i have on my page? Or just keep working on this? Lmk.
> 
> Bye amigos and thanks for commenting!!! it really does mean the world :)
> 
> (smooches)


	6. Unfortunate, Unforeseen, and Unavoidable Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kitty inevitable fucks you over, Sans has a breakthrough, and you try not to throw up for the fifth time this week.

You dreamt of nothing.

Like, literally, of nothing. 

Not that you didn't have a dream, rather, you dreamt of emptiness. The void you'd been sucked into that night in the parking lot, an empty, great vat of shifting shapes that your eyes couldn't quite comprehend. Floating- or maybe swimming- or maybe standing- or maybe not moving at all- in a mass of something intangible that seemed to fill your lungs and press in on you like a heavy blanket. Sticky, heavy, weightless. Something you weren't supposed to see. 

And then-

Red, red eyes staring at you in the darkness, glittering like fat, ruby beetles.

It wasn't the skeleton. Sans. He had red eyes- or eyelights, or whatever it was that bounced around in his empty sockets- but you knew, in a way you couldn't justify, that it wasn't him. 

Whatever was looking at you- whatever had _ found _you was ancient, saturated with power, and

_ r a v e n o u s. _

You might've screamed if you were able. But you were frozen, sounds of terror caught inside you as your throat sealed itself shut, suffocating you. Your trembling fingers curled into your hands, digging white crescents into the meat of your palm as you stared back, petrified by the glinting irises of red boring into you across the void. 

  
  


And then the door into the breakroom slammed open with enough force to rattle your teeth and you jerked awake, smacking your elbow against the wall and stubbing your toe on the oak leg of the couch with a resolute _crack._

“Jesus _fuck- _fucking, _ow,_” you sputtered, clutching at your wounded foot and contorting your entire face in howling pain. Your brain was having a hard time catching up with your sudden escape back into reality and the light streaming through the open door was more than a little disorienting. Your mouth felt dry and bitter and unbearably warm, and a part of you wasn’t certain if you’d actually woken up or if you’d died in your sleep and this was purgatory. 

You held up a hand above your eyes to block out the harsh, industrial light, squinting at the doorway to see Kitty, pink in both hair and face, clutching a fistful of her frilly apron in her small hand.

“Sorry, were you napping?” she asked shamelessly, oblivious to your pain. 

“Ye-”

“I have some good news and some normal news,” she interrupted with a tense smile, her grip on her uniform tightening. 

“Well, I’m still on break, so you can tell me later,” you responded, disgruntled, and closed your eyes to try and stop the world from spinning around you. Nausea had taken hold of you yet again, and you really didn’t want to have to clean your vomit off the break room floor _again. _

“Your lunch ended fifteen minutes ago,” Kitty corrected, not unkindly, and you cracked open an eye just enough to peer at the microwave clock beeping weakly across from you, only to be confronted with the terrible truth that yes, your break was indeed over, and you’d slept through the entire fucking thing without eating anything because that was just your fucking luck, wasn't it? Because nothing good- nothing even _okay _ever happened to you and usually it was your own fault, because you didn't have even a little bit of your life together and had long since given up on trying, and you regularly contemplated offing yourself out of sheer exhaustion with your life and how shitty everything had turned out to be. 

“...well, would you look at that,” you commented, voice shockingly calm.

“So, anyways, uh, the news,” Kitty continued as though you had not spoken, glancing discreetly over her shoulder into the hall before directing her attention back at you. “Do you want the normal news or good news first?”

You unzipped your jacket slowly, watching the zipper slide down rib by rib with a silent kind of agony your head was too cloudy to properly describe. “...Dealers' choice.”

“Okay. So, um, we got a very, very big order for catering a birthday, right?” she started, sounding uncharacteristically not-chipper. “Two dozen red velvet cupcakes, one dozen strawberry cupcakes, and a two-tiered cake, right?”

“Jesus. Big party.”  
“Yeah,” Kitty laughed nervously, which should’ve set off red flags right away, because Kitty was _never _nervous. “Well, they’re, uh. Kind of famous.”

“Oh yeah? Anybody I’d know?”

“Um. Maybe. That’s kind of the not good news.”  
“The bad news?”  
“No, it’s not _bad, _it’s just normal news. There’s good news and normal news. The good news is that we have a really big order coming up and that’s great for the business, and the publicity will probably bring in more customers.”

You pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes and let out a long exhale. There was this terrible pressure building behind your sinuses and your prolonged exposure to Kitty’s grating voice was not helping matters.

“Okay. And the bad ne-”  
“The normal news.”

“-the normal news, whatever. What’s the normal news?”  
Kitty’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it was just the lighting, but she looked sweaty. 

“Well. Uh. Do you remember the kid on TV from two years ago?”  
“... ah, yes. _That _kid,” you nodded after you realized she was not planning on elaborating, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Of course I remember _that _kid on TV from two years ago. Jesus, Kitty. You don’t need to be so specific next time.”  
“Oh. Sorry. Well, that kid-”  
You resisted the urge to smack yourself in the forehead and reminded yourself that Kitty didn’t understand cynicalism or satire. “No. Kitty. I was joking. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Why didn’t you just say so, then?”

Jesus _fucking _christ, you hated her. Nearly every conversation you had with her was like this; painfully long, tedious, and filled with uncomfortable explanations because she was the dumbest goddamn person you knew. “You know, I’m not sure. Why don’t we just drop it and you tell me who you’re talking about?”  
“Okay. Yeah.” Kitty peeked back through the door, turned to you, then looked into the hall again. “Oh, wait, somebody’s at the register. Wait a second.”

She bounced off and you were thankful there were no sharp objects in the break room, because you honestly didn’t know what you’d do to yourself if there had been. 

Instead of killing yourself you lifted the collar of your jacket to your face with trembling fingers and inhaled deeply, letting the smell of smoke and musk swim through you and settle down your frustration.

… you weren't sure why the scent was so soothing to you. Your dad had smoked, so yeah, it was familiar, but you hadn't cared much for the scent back in highschool. He’d only smoked when he was upset or hanging out with his friends, and you’d never liked it when either of those things happened. 

Then again, you used to hate booze, and now look at you. Things changed. Now the smell of cigarettes made you feel warm. Safe. Instead of memories of a kid listening to music with the volume all the way up, trying to drown out the sounds of loud, angry men outside, now you saw a hazily lit bar, felt soft hands at your waist, a low voice in your ear, a hot puff of air on your neck-

You touched your cheeks gingerly, trying to quell the heat that had blossomed there at the thought of that_ stupid fucking skeleton _ with his stupidly gorgeous voice and stupid smirk and stupid mouth that had done terrible, _ terrible _things to you.

_ Hard fingers trace up your side, firm but not rough, like he’s trying to make you think you could escape if you wanted. He doesn’t want you to struggle. He’s trying to fool you, you understand. Trying to keep you from panicking and running away once you realize what he’s trying to do. _

_ You almost want to tell him there’s no need. He can be as rough as he wanted, because you know what he’s doing and you don’t care. _

_ You want him to hurt you. You want him to ruin you.To snap you in two and rearrange you however he wants. You want him to glue you back together. You want to be devoured. To be wanted. To just be somebody other than who you are. _

_ And a part of you knows, even as his mouth moves down your neck, to your shoulders, down your body, and lower and- oh, fuck, lower- that he’s going to hurt you. He’s a wolf, a carnivorous, desperate beast, and you were nothing more than his next meal. Something he’d caught. That all this- all his charm, his restraint, his words- it was all for show, trying to distract you from realizing you were in his den, pinned to the floor, letting yourself be carved open. _

_ “you’re shaking,” he murmurs into your skin, voice hoarse. _

_ “Yeah.” _

_ His mouth feels good. He’s warm. _

_“you scared?”__  
_ _You think about it. Your head is surprisingly clear, even though you’re very, very drunk. He’s not as drunk as you are, and you both know it._

_ He doesn’t seem like he’s waiting for you to respond. He’s still got his mouth on you, making you feel good, trying to make you forget what he is. _

_ But you tell him anyways. _

_ “No.” _

_ You feel him stop. You’re staring up at the ceiling, and the loss of his touch hurts in a way you don’t know how to describe, but you don’t say anything. _

_ He’s looking at you. You can feel his gaze burning into your skin, feel the weight of him pressing down on you. _

_ The air is thick. _

_ It’s quiet. _

_ “...you should be.” _   
  


  
  


“Okay, sorry, I’m back!” Kitty exclaimed, and again you jolted, stubbing the same toe as before. You swore violently, cradling your foot, and Kitty pretended she didn’t notice. “Hello, sunshine. sSorry, I was just- oh, wow, your face is red, are you alright?”

You could hear your pulse in your ears (and feel it in your pinkie toe, but for a different reason). Your cheeks were tingling and your breathing was irregular, faster then normal. 

“Just peachy,” you managed through gritted teeth. You really needed to stop having smutty fantasies at work. “Now who were you talking about?”  
“Just now?”

“The person you were talking about earlier! The famous kid from two years ago who ordered three hundred dollars worth of cake from us?”

“Ah!” Kitty clasped her freckled hands together in front of her skirt, rocking forward onto her mary jane shoes. “I almost forgot. It’s the, uh. They’re older now, but they’re the kid who released all the monsters from the Underground.”

You stared at her blankly.

"... for real?"

"For real."

"The monster _ ambassador _wants us to cater their birthday?"

"I didn't realize who they were at first, 'cause they're bigger, now- I think fifteen, maybe."

“_ Dude, _ that's crazy," you exclaim, and it took you a second to realize you'd just called Kitty _ dude. _Luckily Kitty hadn't noticed, which meant you didn't have to get completely mortified over your embarrassing display of comradery. 

"Oh gosh, I know! I didn’t know who it was until things started to click, you know? You know- the sign language and all? I kept on thinking, Kitty, don’t they look familiar? And then I remembered how the kid from the underground needed a translator in all their videos and also, they had a-” Kitty cut herself off with a small gasp. “Oh, I forgot the worst part! They brought a _ monster _ with them. Can you believe it? I didn’t know what to do! I just- I mean, I like to give people the benefit of doubt, and the monster was nice to the kid, so I was polite, you know, but he’s a _ monster. _Nearly scared off half the bakery! It was crazy, I’m telling you.”

You leaned forward, propping your chin up on the flat of your palm with interest. “What did they do? Just ordered and left?”  
“Well, the kid- I can’t remember their name, if I’m completely honest- I think it was something cool, like _Risk _or something- you know, like, when you take a risk, or that board game. Ever play that board game?”  
“Focus, Kitty.”

“Right! Right, sorry. Um. So they’re kind of quiet, right? I mean. Obviously they don’t talk, but they aren’t super outgoing, either? The monster did most of the talking for them. And oh, boy. He was loud. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t hear him. I honestly don’t know how somebody who’s all bones has that kind of lung power, but-”

But then Kitty snapped her mouth shut, panic flashing momentarily in her big eyes before she hastily covered her blip with a smile that wouldn't have fooled anyone. “-but, uhm, good for him.”

You, on the other hand, had paled. Which was saying something, because you never went outside, like, ever, and had this nasty sort of sickly complexion that pleaded to get some sun.

“... all bones?” you repeated faintly, looking and feeling as though you’d just been punched in the stomach.

“Uh- Well, he was _ skinny, _is what I meant! All skin and bones. Not that he had skin,” she replied, forcefully nonchalant.She would not meet your gaze.

“So he’s a skeleton.”

"... It's not really impor-"

"Kitty."

"-yes, yes, a skeleton," she finally exploded, wringing her hands with an expression of guilt. "A really big skeleton in red and black.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then another.

Then-

"You gotta be kidding me," you stated, tone eerily even.

"... I'm sorry, I didn't want to tell you-"

"You got to be _ fucking _kidding me," you cut in, louder. Your lungs felt heavy, weighed down by dread, making breathing difficult.

"I'm sorry, but it's-"

You stumbled to your feet and gripped at the lining of your jacket, eyes flicking past Kitty's small silhouette into the cafe. 

Shit. Shit shit shit shit fuck shit god fucking damn it fuck oh god oh fuck shit.

"Is he- is he still _ here?" _you hissed through your teeth, squeezing your hands into fists to keep them from trembling.

The last time you'd seen him he'd sworn to break your legs. If he found you here, you didn't doubt he'd follow through. Not to mention he'd know where you worked, and after that it was only a matter of time till he found your name, your apartment, and then, inevitably, _ you. _"I swear to god, Kitty, if he's here I'm going to lose my fucking mind."

"Oh geez, no, he’s gone! He left. They left, and I, um. I didn’t want to tell you what kind of monster he was because I remember the whole thing at the bar, and he was a skeleton, too, so I just… didn’t want to bring up bad memories,” she finished weakly, shoulders turned inwards as she ground the toe of her show into the floor.

“...this wasn’t the same skeleton?” you asked apprehensively after a long, pervasive silence, tension still gripping the length of your body.

“Aw, ‘course not. I would’ve called the police!” Kitty asserted vigorous, looking up through her lashes at you. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. I mean, I doubt all skeleton monsters are, like, related. They probably don’t even know each other.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“SANS, I SWEAR TO ASGORE, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR IN THREE SECONDS I’M GOING TO BEAT YOU TO DEATH.”  
Frisk hit Papyrus in the arm lightly, giving him a pointed, scolding look. Papyrus scowled and rolled his eyes, throwing his arms out in the air theatrically. 

“I’M OBVIOUSLY NOT GOING TO ACTUALLY KILL HIM, HUMAN,” he huffed, not looking particularly repentant as he turned back to the door. “I’M JUST ENCOURAGING HIM TO _ HURRY UP AND UNLOCK THE DOOR OR I’LL SHATTER EVERY BONE IN YOUR MISERABLE BODY,” _the tall skeleton demanded, banging on the door with one gloved fist yet again. The teenager next to them let out a silent exhale and rolled her eyes, shifting the massive, clumsily wrapped box in her arms into a more secure position.

There was the sound of violent stumbling from the other end of the door, followed by a small _ crash _ and a muted _ fuck _before the lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal Sans, red in the face and cradling his elbow.

"hey, boss,” Sans greeted stiffly, rubbing his thumb over his bones. If he was a human, his little fall would’ve left a massive bruise. Then again, he knew from personal experience it didn’t take much for a human to get a bruise, so perhaps he was doing a disservice to the severity of his injury.

“DID YOU BREAK SOMETHING? I HEARD SOMETHING BREAKING,” Papyrus responded, ignoring his brother’s welcome as he ducked down to step through the doorframe and into the house.

“nah, just- uh, dropped something, but it’s fine.”  
“IT SOUNDED HEAVY.”

“‘yeah, well, i’m a big guy,” Sans muttered under his breath, letting Papyrus shove him out of the way towards the wall as he headed to the closet to hang up his coat. Sans winced, preparing to shortcut out of the house before his brother could berate him any longer, until Frisk shuffled inside, face obscured by a gift the size of a mini-fridge.

Sans’ eye lights visibly brightened at the sight of the teen straining under the weight of her luggage. He blinked once, trying to contain the small little stutter in his gut and casually leaned against the wall he’d been shoved to, nonchalant, cool, careless. 

“whatcha got there, kiddo?” Sans questioned unhurriedly, as though he’d not just been verbally and physically assaulted by his brother.

She couldn’t answer, as her hands were occupied with keeping her massive, crudely assembled gift from toppling over, but she did send him a small smile. She looked cute when she smiled. She didn't do it often because, like Sans, she'd been taught to repress emotions as a child and had never grown out of it. However, unlike Sans, who was well into adulthood, she was still maturing and it was okay for her to have unresolved issues.

"UNDYNE SENT A BIRTHDAY PRESENT," Papyrus answered for her, shutting the closet door with his hip as Frisk dodged a hair ruffle from Sans and fled into the living room with her gift.

"ooh, is somebody's birthday comin' up?" he asked, raising a mocking brow and trailing after the kid over to the couch. "i had no idea."

Frisk shot him an unimpressed look, throwing herself onto the couch with a little bounce, fingers already fumbling to rip open the glossy red wrapping covering the box.

"_ AH-AH-AH, _ NO, UNDYNE SPECIFICALLY SAID TO WAIT_," _Papyrus scolded as he delicately shucked off his gloves and folded them neatly, placing them on the counter next to a recently cleaned ashtray. "PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE AND YOUR PARTY IS ONLY A FEW WEEKS AWAY."

*_ she's not here, what difference does it make? _Frisk signed, movements a little clunky due to the assortment of bandages around her fingers. Sans was a little surprised she hadn't gotten used to them, seeing as she almost always had some sort of injury on her hands, knees, or elbows. She'd gotten real fucking klutzy, lately, but that probably had to do with her sudden growth spurt and her adjusting to her new legs. They weren't as skinny as they'd been in the underground. He wasn't sure if it was because she'd gone on a healthier diet, one that didn't consist entirely of hotdogs and spiders and pie or because she was getting older, filling out her sweater in ways that made Sans feel increasingly uncomfortable because it was really fucking weird to think that the kid who'd stumbled out of the ruins all those years ago was growing up, turning into something that wasn't so kiddish and more-

… Frisk was looking at him with a strange, questioning expression, and he realized he'd been staring. He shrugged back at her.

"UNDYNE WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO SEND A GIFT TO YOU FROM CITIES AWAY. YOU MIGHT AS WELL RESPECT HER WISHES."

Frisk let out a huff, begrungingly pushing the present away from her. E

His thoughts momentarily twisted towards you, and how you were probably the kind of person to do something stupid just because somebody had told you not to. Something stupid, like get drunk with an asshole skeleton monster, let him take you home, let him pin you to your bed and make you feel real nice.

… fuck. 

Something poked his leg and he shifted his heavy gaze over to the kid, who was looking up at him with a mildly concerned expression.

*_ you alright? _

Sans rose his eyebrows at her lazily, as though he hadn’t had a sex fantasy about you for the sixth time today.

“never been better,” he said, stretching his arm over the back of the couch behind him. And before she could press him any further, like he knew she would, he changed the subject and prodded her with the toe of his shoe.

"you're a big girl now, huh? all grown up. i remember when you were just a little thing."

And she really had been so little when she'd fallen into the underground. Barely twelve. A literal fucking _child. _

*_ I'm almost fifteen now, _Frisk signed, looking vaguely offended.

"_ fifteen, _really?” Sans whistled softly. “jesus, when the fuck did you grow up?"

"_ LANGUAGE," _Papyrus chided half-heartedly from the kitchen. He didn't like it when Sans cursed at all, much less when he cursed around Frisk. If only he knew how filthy Frisk's mouth- or hands, he supposed, seeing as she didn't exactly talk- was when his back was turned, he might not have been so uptight.

"sorry, boss,” he said anyways, and Frisk gave him a sympathetic look. He ignored it. He didn’t like thinking that the kid pitied him. 

“...you know, if you’re such a big kid, why are we still babysitting ya?"

Frisk gave Sans a deadpan even less emotive than usual. *_ You aren't babysitting me. Papyrus and I were just out to get stuff for the party because Mom was busy. And then I didn't want to go back home, so I thought I could- _

Frisk scrunched her mouth to one side, deliberating how to continue.

*-_ could hang out with you guys today, _she finished, cheeks going faintly pink. He wasn't sure why, because she'd never been embarrassed about hanging around him before. And she hung around him a lot. Probably more than she should. Definitely more than she should, because she wasn't his friend or anything and she was too independent and mature to need supervision and they really had nothing in common, like, at all, and Sans was constantly cold to her because that was just the way that he was. And his jokes were too adult for her to understand or appreciate, and he drunk too much and she was also, again, a _child _and he was a full-grown adult that that was weird, wasn't it? 

But Sans also _knew. _

He knew first-fucking-hand how it felt to remember things that no one else did. How it felt to be the only person in the entire goddamn world who knew they were stuck in a time loop and couldn't do anything to fix it. Whether he liked it or not, the kid was the only other person who understood what he was going through. 

She was the only other person who could remember how it felt to die.

That was kind of fucked-up, wasn't it?

"your old lady knows you're here?"

*_ Yeah. _

"you sure 'bout that? 'cause last time you said that an' you were wrong i got my ass handed to me."

*_ I'm sure. I told her me and Papyrus were going to pick out birthday cake stuff today. _

"an' you didn't get anything for _ me?" _ he inquired, feigning betrayal. "ouch, kiddo. and after everything i've done for you."

Frisk's shoulders hit her ears, body squaring itself in defense. *_ honestly, we didn't stay all that long. The lady at the front looked uncomfortable. She kept looking at Papyrus all weird. _

"YES, THAT WAS RATHER RUDE OF IT, WASN'T IT?" Papyrus remarked, stepping back into the room with his big, bare hands on his hips. Sans glanced at him once, but his brother did not meet his eyes. He was looking at Frisk.

*_ Her, Papyrus. Not 'it'. _

"WHATEVER. SHE HARDLY LOOKED LIKE ANY _ HER _I'VE SEEN BEFORE."

"whaddya mean? like, no tits?”

Frisk sent Sans a scowl at that, which he ignored. Papyrus didn’t seem to notice, and Sans considered the possibility that Papyrus didn’t know what tits were. For some reason, Sans was fine with that. The thought of his brother thinking about breasts like Sans thought about them made his stomach churn unpleasantly. Almost as unpleasant as his stomach churned when he thought about _ you, _fucking some other human. 

God. He needed a smoke. 

"NO. SHE JUST LOOKED _ WEIRD. _AND SHE KEPT LOOKING AT ME."

Sans was hardly paying attention, fumbling in his pocket to check for his pack of cigarettes. He wasn’t planning on smoking in front of his brother or the kid, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t have to pop into his bedroom before he headed out to Grillby’s later to grab another pack.

_ *Yeah, but you were kind of staring, too, _Frisk responded, lifting herself up off the floor to sit on the faded red sofa beside Sans. Sans shifted himself over to give her space, one arm still spread out across the back of the sofa behind her.

Papyrus flushed. “I WAS- I DIDN’T _ STARE.” _

*_ Okay, well, alright, but that’s not what I saw. _

Papyrus’ gaze flickered to Sans momentarily. Sans pretended he didn’t know what was happening. 

“YOU KNOW- OKAY, IF I WAS STARING, AND I WASN’T, IT WAS ONLY BECAUSE SHE LOOKED LIKE A FREAK,” he stammered, grip on his hip bones tightening resolutely. 

*_ What are you talking about? She was really pretty! _

Papyrus snorted. “MAYBE BY HUMAN STANDARDS. DID YOU EVEN SEE HER HAIR, FRISK, OR ARE YOU BLIND AS WELL AS MUTE NOW?”  
...ouch.

Frisk didn’t seem to care. *_It was pink. So what? Lots of people have pink hair now. _

Sans’ had been absently rolling a cigarette between his fingers inside his pocket, but at the mention of her hair he stilled.

“...pink?” he repeated, as though he hadn’t heard her properly.

“YES. PINK HAIR. I DIDN’T KNOW HUMANS COULD HAVE PINK HAIR.”

*_ No, Papyrus, it's hair dye. _

_ “ _ WHY WOULD ANYBODY COLOR THEMSELVES PINK? OUT OF ALL THE COLORS THEY HAVE OUT THERE, SHE CHOOSES _ PINK?” _

_ *I like that color. _

“WELL, THAT’S STUPID. AND ALL THE REST OF HER CLOTHES? SHE LOOKED LIKE A CHILD.”

Sans removed his arm from behind Frisk and sat up, suddenly very interested in the conversation.

“all cutesy, right? like, skirts ‘n ruffles ‘n real girly shit, right?” he inquired, leaning forward onto his knees. He was aware Frisk was signing something from next to him, but Sans was intent on hearing Papyrus’ answer.

“YES. SHE LOOKED LIKE AN IDIOT. AND SHE HAD HER HAIR UP LIKE-” Papyrus lifted both hands to cup either side of his head, like animal ears. “-LIKE _ THIS. _LIKE, REMEMBER THAT ONE SHOW ALPHYS IS ALWAYS WATCHING? WITH THAT ONE GIRL WITH CAT EARS? SHE LOOKED LIKE HER. BUT WORSE. EXCEPT, uh. SHE HAD NORMAL HUMAN EARS. NOT CAT EARS. I CHECKED.”

*_ Oooh, is that why you asked her what was in her hair? I thought that was a weird thing to ask. _

“IT WAS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE QUESTION. AND SHE SAID NO, SO IT DOESN’T MATTER, ANYWAYS.”

Sans, however, was no longer listening. His hands were curled into fists in his lap and his eyelights had shrunk to tiny pinpricks as he thought very, very hard about how to proceed next.

“...was anybody else workin’ there with her?” he asked very carefully, voice painfully even.

“NO. THEY WERE WOEFULLY UNDERSTAFFED.THE GIRL MENTIONED SHE HAD A COWORKER IN THE BACK, BUT THEY NEVER CAME OUT.”  
“huh.”  
There was a long, long pause.

“...where did you say this place was, again?”

“ON THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN. WHY?”

Sans’ gold tooth glinted as he tucked his hand into his other pocket, thumb running over the edge of your cell phone.

“...i might pop in for a bite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So no Snas / Readz interactions this chapter, because I'm a tease, but also because we gotta have some plot shit somewhere in this filthy fic. Trust me, they'll be more than enough banter between them next chapter to make up for it. Maybe more then banter. Idfk.
> 
> Also. Yes. I lied about updating this fic two weeks ago, but you know what? I got mildly sick and used it as an excuse to sleep all day. Also I was feeling angsty, so I wrote a real fucking sad chapter on my other undertale fic. Also, I have no idea who has a crush on who in the story at this point, so we're all just going to pretend i know what I'm doing for my sake.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting! I love reading comments. 
> 
> ALSO i know these notes are unusually long but I was bored this week and made two like aesthetic collages for Readz and Kitty. If y'all want to see 'em lmk and i'll post em next chapter. 
> 
> Okay thats it. goodbye lads and see u soon hopefully~!


	7. Sobriety for Shitheads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your headaches are getting worse. Like, a lot worse.  
Luckily, the drugs are getting better and better. They hit harder, they last longer, and they're cheaper, too.
> 
> Good luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please dont do drugs, kiddos

"Where the fuck are my pills."

You dug through your snow jacket in a frenzy, blood pounding against your eyes as the pressure in your skull mounted. 

Ever since your little lunchtime nap yesterday you'd had a headache that had only worsened since showing up at work. It had started out as a low ache just behind your sinuses, but had spread as the day progressed to the point where blinking hurt.

"Fuck fuck fuck," you mumbled as your turned out your pockets to be confronted by an overwhelming lack of pain medication. You quickly turned to your locker, tearing through your backpack in search of the missing pill bottle. You found a few loose hair bands, a pink gel pen, and a wrinkled two dollar bill, but no medicine.

You cursed, brows knitting in pain as you sat back on your heels. Groaning, you kneaded the bridge of your nose with your knuckles, trying to dispel some of the tightness that had formed in your temples. 

You could've _ sworn _you'd had pain killers stored away somewhere. You'd already checked under the counter and scoured the breakroom, but either you'd finished the bottle off and forgotten about it or somebody had thrown it out or misplaced it. 

Somebody, of course, being-

"Are you okay? You ran out real fast there," Kitty asked, concern lacing her girlish voice as she tucked a stray strand of pink hair behind her ears. "And- um, I'm not complaining, it's totally fine, but, um, we really aren't supposed to take breaks all the time in the middle of the day."

"Did you take my pills, Kitty?" You asked through gritted teeth, voice hard.

"Um- sorry, what pills?"

"Painkillers. I have a headache."

"Oh. I don't think so."

"You don't_ think _so?" You echoed, barely containing yourself from leaping up and impaling yourself on the nearest sharp object.

"Um, maybe. Were they in a little orange pill bottle?" 

You shuddered out a _ jesus christ. _"Yes. My pills were in a pill bottle with my name on them."

"Then yes! They were on the floor. I put them in the lost and found."

You choked on a scream of frustration and willed yourself not to strangle her to death. You felt a little as though you might cry.

Instead you sucked in a shaky breath, squeezed your eyes shut, and pushed away the thought of throttling your coworker.

"...so you found my pain medication and decided to put it in the lost and found instead of, I don't know, _ asking _me about it?" You managed, voice painfully even.

"You weren't here yet, I'm sorry! I found the bottle two mornings ago and you were late and I meant to tell you, but when I tried you told me to shut up because you were hungover and then the day after that- yesterday, I mean- there was that whole skeleton thing and you got all nervous and yelled at me again so I guess I just never thought to bring it up?" She rambled, twisting her apron in her small, freckled hands distractedly. 

“Can I have them back now, then?” 

“Oh, yeah, of course, sorry! Um, they’re just in the box.” 

Then she bounced out of the room, leaving you alone with your pain. Trembling with barely suppressed irritation, you crawled across the room to the small cardboard box overflowing with assorted scarves and tangled headphones customers had forgotten at the store over the year, thrusting your arm elbow deep in search of the pills you so desperatly craved.

You found the bottle after a few moments and fumbled with the child proof cap with animal desperation, before ravenously popping three small white pills into your mouth and swallowing them without a drop of water to wash it down.

You stumbled to your feet, feeling vaguely dizzy, and smoothed out your now wrinkled uniform and hair. Your head was still pounding, but you knew from experience the pills would kick in soon. Your extra strength painkillers were not hard drugs, exactly, but they still had a certain bite to them that would make the rest of your day hopefully more tolerable. Also, you’d just taken a dose three times the recommended amount, so. That was going to be fun.

You quickly prayed none of the customers would notice you were high and headed back behind the counter on shaky feet.

Kitty glanced at you as you staggered in, her big, brown eyes falling to your neck. She cleared her throat pointedly and you made a face, gingerly touching at your hickey, before realizing the collar of the turtle neck sweater you’d worn to hide the mark had somehow rolled down in your frenzy to find your meds. 

Face flushing, you adjusted the collar back up, but not before the blonde, thin nosed patron Kitty had been serving wrinkled her nose down at you. 

Today was _ not _a good day, you decided, grinding your teeth to keep yourself from flipping her off. Aside from having a headache, ever since you'd woken up, you'd had this sinking, creeping trepidation that something bad was going to happen.

It was a low level anxiety but a pervasive one, swirling somewhere in the back of your head as you went about your day, an unexplainable kind of fear for some upcoming, traumatic event you had yet to experience. 

You'd written it off as another bullshit bought of paranoia due to your chronic sleep deprivation. The jittering, you reasoned, was from constant caffeination, and your headache was altering your rational thinking. Whatever- or whoever, more accurately- was the cause of your anxiety, you understood there was no basis for you to be fearful. _ He _still had no idea who or where you were. He didn't even know your name.

… then again, most people didn't, so he wasn't special or anything. He wasn't special. Not even a little bit. So there really was no reason for you to be thinking about him at all anymore. 

You shook your head violently, trying to dislodge the image of him from your head. The coffee mug clutched between your hands faded back into focus and you frowned, struggling to remember when you'd picked up the cup, or what the customer had ordered. Probably pumpkin something or another, you resolved, seeing as that was all anyone seemed to order these past few weeks. 

The painkillers made the time pass faster. Or at least, you think it did. You didn't have your phone to check the time. But there was no rush anymore, which probably meant it was a few hours after lunch. You hadn't had a customer in a solid half hour, which was nice, because you had some peace and quiet, but also sucked, because that meant less tips.

A small sigh escaped you as you dipped your finger under the edge of your sweater, running the pad of your thumb absently over the mark on your neck. Your weary, dark eyes glazed over as your thoughts shifted elsewhere, letting the mechanical hum of the heater wash over you. The drugs you’d taken were in full effect, now, leaving you fuzzy headed and impossibly warm as they numbed the pain in your head and your capacity to focus.

God. You were so tired. Like that time you’d taken a dozen benadryls in highschool and passed out for forty eight hours. Blearily you understood you should not have taken three extra strength pain killers in one sitting, but hey. Your headache was gone, so that was something. 

Unfortunately, the pain of your headache had been one of the only things keeping you from falling asleep, as you'd had a particularly rough night and in total, probably clocked in no more than three hours of sleep. So not only were you mildly high now, you were also deliriously exhausted. You needed sleep. Badly. Like, you were about to pass out at the counter, and even high you knew that falling asleep during your shift would be bad. You might even get fired. Even if it was a slow day, you were already on thin ice with Westley, who had never seemed to like you in the first place, and any more screw-ups would be sure to push him over the edge. 

You were so trapped in your thoughts you hardly noticed when the bell above the door tinkled and a new customer stepped in, a stray gust of frigid wind following them. The breeze hit your face but did little to rouse you, and neither did the sound of heavy, swift footsteps heading in your direction. Whoever had entered was little more than a smear of blue and brown as your eyes danced in and out of clarity, distorting the room into murky, crude shapes and vague colors. 

"Excuse me?" A voice interpreted and you jolted back too, a little dizzy as you eyed the twitchy, nicely dressed man at the counter.

"Hi," you said distantly, before proceeding to stare at him blankly. You'd forgotten what you were supposed to say when people approached the counter.

"...hi, uh, can I have a-"

"How can I help you?" You interrupted at the weridest fucking time you could've possibly interrupted. The man looked slightly uncomfortable at your behavior, which was nothing new, because you were a fucking dumbass who didn't know how to interact with other human beings without having a fucking aneurysm.

"... a black coffee, please," he continued, squinting down his long nose at you. "Are you alright?"

"One black coffee, will that be all?" you said instead of responding to his question, punching in his order on the register. 

"Yes?"

You finished his order mostly smoothly, except for when you let his cup overflow and spilled coffee all over the counter. After cursing under your breath and sopping up the spill you handed him his cup of black coffee, trying not to notice the strange, concerned look he was giving you.

"Thanks," he said hesitantly, clutching his coffee between his thin, boney hands and giving you one more questioning glance. 

You nodded, not totally trusting your voice to obey you. Your hickey had started aching again, although you couldn't understand why. Hickeys weren't supposed to throb. The last time it had done this it was because that _ skeleton _had been around, and he was nowhere in sight.

Maybe you were just imagining it. You had to be. Everything was going to be fine. This was human territory. There were human police men everywhere. Sans was not here. He was not going to find you. 

You were safe.

……..

  
  


*_ Stop glaring at everybody. You're scaring people. _

Frisk signed at Sans, who was currently staring down a small human man who looked a little like he was about to piss himself.

"don't see a problem with that," Sans replied, voice hard as he plowed on ahead down down the neatly paved street. Frisk had to jog to keep up, grabbing onto his arm with her freshly bandaged hands. He shook her off and she let go, only to continue to pester him.

*_ Why do you want to go there so badly? I thought you didn't like going to human stores. _

"i told ya you didn't need to come," he growled back instead of responding, gritting his teeth. A few humans heading in his direction quickly crossed the street to get away, nervously eyeing him and the teenage girl struggling to keep up with him. 

*_ As monster ambassador, I need to be here to make sure you don't fuck up human-monster relations. _

"hey, watch your fucking mouth. do you know what papyrus is gonna do to me if he hears you cussing?"

_ *Can you please calm down? I know you don't like humans and I don't want any more- just that we've all worked so hard to keep peace, you know, and I don't want- _

"don't want _ what? _don't want me to fuck it up?" he supplied louder than strictly necessary. An elderly woman's stuffy looking dog began barking at him from across the street, and Sans shot it a glare so hard it shut up imedietly, letting out a soft whimper. The woman wrinkled her nose at him, then dragged her dog away hurriedly.

*_ That’s not what I’m saying. I just mean that you seem mad and humans are ignorant, sometimes. I don’t want a misunderstanding to happen. _

“thanks for the confadience, kid,” he muttered, walking faster. “i’m a grown-ass adult. i don’t need a kid to babysit me.”

Frisk struggled to keep up with his new pace. *_ Honestly, Sans, humans are just still scared of monsters, and I want to be there so they know that- so they see that monsters and humans can be friends. _

“you’re honestly kidding yourself if you believe that, girly.”

*_ Well, we’re friends, and I’m a human. _

“yeah, but you didn’t _ grow up _with ‘em. you’re a goddamn anomaly."

*_ No, I'm just a person put in a crappy situation who made the best of it. _

Sans gave her a single glance at her when she said _ crap, _but decided to let it slide.

"your just lucky as hell," he responded, turning back towards the sidewalk. "you get to redo things when they don't go yer way."

*_ I don't do that anymore. _

"you _ can't _do that anymore," he corrected, gaze darkening.

Frisk did not reply.

For the next minute or two they walked in silence, with Frisk trailing a little behind him. A trio of college students noticed Sans barreling down the sidewalk and quickly ducked into the nearest shop. Apparently even thirty yards away, they could tell he was _ pissed. _

Which he was. He didn't like humans as a general rule of thumb, so being around so many was making him uncomfortable. He didn't think it was totally unwarranted to say he hated them as a species. They were good for fucking, yeah, but as a whole? Aside from the kid, he wasn't exactly a big fan of humans. And now he was surrounded by them, smack dab in a human street with humans stores, one of which you worked in.

A bakery. He hadn't pegged you for the kind of doll to bake things. He'd expected you to be a- a mechanic, maybe, 'cause of how much you loved your bike, or maybe one of those people who did tattoos. Not an apron wearing, cupcake peddling little thing working in a corner cafe. Though it explained your smell; warm and spicy and sweet and earthy, like- like bread or something. He didn't fucking know. Sans wasn't good with words. 

It also made sense why you'd had all those cupcakes strapped to the back of your bike. He could vaguely remember you telling him they were for the senior center, but he'd assumed it was because you had a grandma or something there, not because that was your _ job. _

And yes, he _ had _purposefully gotten you drunk and lured you back to his bedroom under the impression you had a grandmother to take care of. Did that make him a bad person? Probably. Did he care? Not as much as he should've.

Whatever. Now he knew better. He'd finally found out where you worked yesterday, but the store had been closed, so he'd had to wait. Then this morning he'd gotten a call with some bad news- some really _ fucking bad news- _and then Frisk had decided to accompany him to the bakery, 'cause she didn't know how to mind her own fucking business. 

And then there was the whole matter of _ you. _

Seeing you again. He didn't know why the thought made his gut twist so uncomfortably. You reminded him of weakness. Not because _ you _were weak, exactly, but because you'd somehow gotten under his skin all those nights ago and made him, for a brief moment, soft.

Soft people- _ weak _ people- did not survive in the Underground. He'd know. He regularly exploited them. The only reason the kid could be a nice person was because she had a whole group of not-nice monsters to protect her. Being _ soft _was for humans. For dumbass humans who didn't realize the world didn't reward compassion. It was every monster for themself. 

Frisk grabbed his arm again and this time he came to a screeching halt, temper flaring to dangerous heights as he spun around on the small girl besides him, fully prepared to lay into her, until she flinched and gestured up at his eye.

Sans scowled, blinking once and bringing the back of his hand to cover his left eye light, which had began smoldering dangerously red. He hadn't realized he'd gotten himself so worked up, and over such a stupid fucking _ human. _

Faltering, he screwed his sockets shut and sucked in a deep breath of the brisk, thin air, willing the thrumming energy pumping through his bones to settle back down. 

When he finally opened his sockets his eyelights were back to normal and the tension in his broad shoulders, while not gone by any means, had a significantly lessened.

"...look, kiddo. i'm not mad at _ you," _he started, voice low and weary. "just- things are kind of shitty right now and i'm just tryin ta- to fix things, and it's just- it's tough, you know? i'm not mad."

Frisk frowned. Kind of. She didn't really express her emotions on her face. It had fuckin' werided him out for the longest time, but he'd eventually gotten used to it. Learned to pick up on the little things, like how she'd tug at the sleeve of her sweater when she was nervous or twist her hands together when she was mad and was thinking of what to sign.

Then she pointed at something behind him and he turned around, brows furrowed, to be confronted by a delicate pink, christmas light decorated storefront with white and mint trimmings. It looked like a shop out straight out of a dollhouse.

Except the windows were filled with pristine display cases housing colorful cupcakes, crispy, golden-toasty pies, pumpkin shaped cookies and chalkboard signs with neat, looping lettering wishing him a _ happy fall _.

It was quite easily the most cute, feminine store he'd ever seen.

And you wouldn't be caught _ dead _in it.

"this ain't the place."

*_ Yes, it is. _

_ "it can't be the fuckin' place _," he laughed, a little forcefully. "fuckin' wasted my fuckin' time."

*_ what are you talking about? _

He threw his hands up into the air in exasperation, ignoring Frisk entirely. "how many pink haired, lolita fuckin' girls are there in this city! this ain't the right place."

He began pacing furiously, sucking in shuddering inhales theough his teeth as he tried to quell his mounting fury and frustration.

There was no way you worked in the place like this. The pink haired bitch might, but you sure as hell didn't. Which meant he still had no fucking idea where you were or how he was supposed to find you. 

And he _ had _to find you. He'd let you go that one night against his better judgment, because he'd been too much of a fucking pussy to go through with what he'd planned to do to you, but found solace in the fact that plan b would pan out. And, as he'd just found out this morning, it hadn't. 

Which would've been upsetting in any situation, but was only made worse by the fact that he was running out of time.

"this is such _ bullshit. _fuckin' bitch keeps fuckin' walking out on me. shit. fuckin' hell, i'm gonna fuckin' kill her."

Frisk twisted her tanned, clumsy fingers together, looking curious and mildly concerned about her skeleton companion. Probably because he was actin' like a fuckin' loon, but honestly, he couldn't find it in him to give a fuck what the kiddo thought at the moment. 

_ *... are you looking for the pink-haired girl? Is that why you wanted to come here? _

"the- no, i don't give a shit about her, i'm looking for-" 

But then he cut himself off, because while he'd been pacing he'd happened to catch a glimpse of the cashier through the window.

Frisk’s brows twitched as she followed Sans’ gaze, a little confused, into the bakery and over to the counter, where a pretty, disheveled looking 20-something year old in a frilly pink apron was sitting, looking bored.

Your eyes were heavy lidded and glossy, wandering across the bakery with little interest, like your mind was elsewhere. They stayed unfocused until they finally fell to the window, where Sans and Frisk were staring inwards.

You met Sans' gaze through the thin glass and there was a long, heavy moment in which nothing existed but you and him and the negligible, impossibly vast distance between you.

Then you fell off your stool, toppling onto the floor behind the counter gracelessly, and before Sans could even react, a gangly, dark haired man whose eyes were fixed on the steaming cup of coffee in his big hands hustled out of the bakery doors and slammed directly into Frisk.

Frisk let out a small, almost inaudible yelp as blisteringly hot black coffee cascaded gracefully through the air and directly onto Frisk’s neck and shoulder.

“Oh my god- oh, I’m so sorry,” the man babbled as Frisk’s eyes watered. “I didn’t see you. I’ll go get some napkins or-”

But then the man looked up from Frisk to meet Sans’ gaze, and the _ fear _ that flooded his fragile human body at the sight of Sans’ livid, blood chilling stare was so thick one could _ feel _it. 

Sans didn't even have to say anything. The man went as pale as milk and seemingly forgot about his promise to get napkins, instead dropping his coffee cup onto the pavement and sprinting away as fast as his long legs could carry him. Apparently the sight of an enraged skeleton had kicked in his fight or flight response, which left Frisk soaking wet and with fresh burns down her neck and Sans with the overwhelming, ear popping urge to throttle the man running away from him to death.

*_ No, sans, calm down, it’s fine, sans- _ Frisk quickly signed, stepping in between the retreating man and the towering monster who’d just started after him. * _ It was an accident, it’s fine. I’m fine. _

"no you ain't. you ain't-"

*_ I'm fine, _she repeated, firmer, grabbing Sans' arm and sqeezing tightly, trying to snap him out of it. It seemed to work. 

He finally tore himself away from the man to Frisk's earnest, round face, to the now red flesh of her neck, before drifting back towards the bakery counter, where you were struggling to lift yourself off the floor.

He wrapped his hand around her small wrist and gently removed her grip off his arm.

"...lets get you cleaned up inside, yeah?" he said to Frisk, attention still fixed on you and your rapidly reddening face.

And then he and you were going to have a _ chat. _

  
  


………..

  
  


"Fucking _ shit, _ holy _ fuck," _you hissed, finally manging to heave yourself to your feet just as the door burst open and you immediately dropped back down behind the counter, pressing your back against the cabinets and sqeezing your eyes shut tight.

"Oh, _ shit," _you whispered, face burning feverishly as you curled in yourself, hoping to some higher power that he hadn't seen you. 

...well. okay, obviously he _ had _ seen you. You'd looked straight at him. More importantly, he'd looked straight at _ you, _ which was bad, very bad, for a lot of different reasons but the main one being that _ he was going to fucking kill you. _

You were going to pass out. You felt dizzy, sick with panic and drugs and two hours of sleep, and it took every ounce of self control you possed to keep yourself from hyperventilating as heavy, sturdy footsteps approached, followed by a lighter, dainty gait heading straight past you towards the bathrooms. The teenager, you assumed, peaking at what little you could see of their boots as they walked past. What Sans had been doing hanging around a teenaged human was besides you,

The other footsteps, however, had stopped right at the other side of the counter.

Holding your breath and hugging your arms into your chest, you slowly rose your head upwards, just as Sans leaned over the counter to stare down at you with half lidded, piercing eyes.

For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then, with a small, predatory crook of his teeth:

"...found you."

  
  
  


........

You staggered to your feet, immediately deciding you didn't like the imbalance in power with him looming over you. Instead of backing against the wall away from him, however, you stood your ground (_ now is not the time to be brave, dumbass, run!) _and glowered up at him with as much force as you, being as drugged up and exhausted as you were, could muster.

"Leave me the fuck alone," you demanded, voice shockingly steady.

Sans ignored you, thoroughly unintimidated by your attempts at scaring him off as his dragged his eyes down your body closely, not bothering to make an attempt at discretion.

“nice outfit," he commented after a long moment, voice impossibly low and softer, _ smoother _then it’d just been, richer, almost, like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be scary, and your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

You peeled your eyes away from him and glanced down at yourself, a little caught off guard by his assertion, only to realize you were, indeed, still wearing your frilly, girlish, obscenely pink apron, and more significantly, that he’d _ seen _you in your frilly, girlish, obscenely pink apron.

You bunched the fabric between your trembling fingers and tried to cool your face down. “This is my _ uniform,” _ you replied defensively, lip stiff. “Because I’m _ working.” _

“yeah, i figured,” he exhaled nonchalantly, voice still lingering in the honeyed, breath stealing pitch from before. And that was worse, somehow. 

Like how you could stomach horror movies when the killer was on screen, cutting a girl in half, or the demon was possessing a nun and contorting her body horribly, but you could not stand dark hallways or silence.

Usually you could deal with whatever happened to you fairly well. You could _ not, _ however, deal with _ not knowing _what was awaiting you. 

Why wasn't he _ mad? _

He'd been raging outside when that man had spilled his coffee on the teen. Like, genuinely, actually, furious. You didn’t know him very well, had hardly spent an hour with him- an hour that you could remember, at least- but it did not take a genuis to see that he’d been real fucking mad.

But now he was something else. Not that he wasn’t mad, exactly, rather, you couldn’t figure out what he was feeling. 

He took a small step closer, his knees touching the counter, and tilted his head down at you with a delicately quizzical look. “what’s a nice doll like you doin’ workin’ in a place like this?”

“What's a nice doll like _you _doing in a place like this?” you fired right back, unwilling to fold just yet.

Sans ddin't miss a beat. “following up on some business."

You didn't know if it was just because you were high off pain meds or because you hadn't drunk a single glass of water all day, but your stomach dropped out from under you, leaving you dizzy and slightly nauseous. To hide it you sent him a biting glare as your grip on your apron tightened, hopefully stilling the tremors in your fingertips, because you had a funny feeling the _ business _ he was referring to was strangling you to death. "And you just happened to decide to conduct your business _ here _?”

He shrugged, attention turned downwards at his skeletal hand as he ran the pad of his thumb over a tarnished, clunky bronze ring circling his middle finger. It glinted in the hazy light of the shop, and you were reminded, quite suddenly, of the ring your father had worn when he’d been alive. A biker ring. “yeah, well, i been looking for this doll for a while- been through a lot of trouble ‘cause of her, actually- an' this was the only place i could find her." 

Your voice was stuck in your throat. “...ever think maybe they didn’t want you to find them?”

“nah. we had a deal. see, she’d give me my coat back and i’d return her phone. we did a little, uh- switcharoo- last time we talked. an’ she’s a real decent doll, you know. ain’t the kind of gall to run off when she’s still, uh- involved with a guy.”

“We aren’t _ involved, _ ”you spat back, clenching your fists so tight you left little fingernail crescents of white in your slick palms. Your face was burning. Maybe the painkillers were working _ too _well.

“no?” he asked, sounding so genuinely confused had you not known him- and by _ known _you meant slept with- you would’ve been convinced he didn’t know what you were talking about and not mocking you.

“_ No. _Just because you-” 

You glanced around the bakery for a moment, double checking it was empty before swiveling back around to Sans and hissing under your breath. “_ Just because we fucked while I was drunk as hell doesn’t mean we’re anything.” _

Instead of making a smug comment about you sleeping with him, Sans rose a single brow at you, and for a full ten seconds, said nothing.

You began to sweat. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

Before your mind shattered under the stress of being stared at in silence, however, he spoke.

“... so you really don’t remember that night, huh,” he said, face betraying nothing.

You blinked once. Then again. Then twice more, rapid fire. You swallowed. Clutched your hands together, having a much harder time of making a poker face then Sans did.

“What- no, that’s- no, I remember,” you corrected him resolutely. Even to your own ears you didn’t sound convinced.

Well. You remembered flashes. Disorienting, hazy, incoherent flashes of booze and laughter and skin on skin- skin on bones- smoke, and red- a glow of red, a smile that seemed all too happy, _ too _happy-

“Mmhmn,” he agreed, patronizing. “but if you’re missing any details, i’d be happy to _ refresh _you.”

You wanted to slap him across his face. You refrained, which was honestly a goddamn surprise, because you’d never had much impulse control and also, you were currently high, and being high usually meant you had even _ less _impulse control.

But you had the sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t take kindly to you smacking him in the mouth, and an even bigger suspicion he was the kind of person to be violent when things they didn’t take kindly to happened, so instead of blowing up you exhaled through your nose, screwed up your eyes tight, and forced your fists finally relax.

“...look, bud,” you started, wrinkling your nose and struggling to keep your voice from rising in volume.. “I’m not trying to be a bitch. I just- honestly, I don’t want anything to do with you. I just want to be left alone, okay?”

He hummed again, like he was considering it. 

“yeah. no can do, sweetheart.”

You let out a strangled sound of frustration and hunched over, burying your face in your hands and refusing to look at him. “How many times do I have to fucking tell you I’m not interested in what you’re selling? I don’t want any goddamn girl scout cookies.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

Your headache was coming back. Jesus Christ. “What the- the fuck are you- fucking _ flirting _with me for? Is this just- what, are you trying to get your jacket back? Is that what this is all about?”

“jeez, kid, calm down, yeah? i’m just being friendly. making small talk. ‘s what people do, right?”  
“I don’t even have the jacket anymore, I swear to god,” you proclaimed into your palms. “I was mad so I threw it away. Salvation army. I don’t have it anymore.”  
You were lying through your teeth, of course, because you wouldn’t have given up that stupid coat for the entire world, but he didn’t need to know that. And yeah, you doubted he’d give your phone back now, but honestly, you’d already made your bed and now it was time for you to get your much needed sleep in it.

“first off, the jacket ain’t the issue here, and second, i know for a fact you didn’t give it away, ‘cause i can still smell me on you, and that wouldn’t be happening if you’d tossed it.”

… _ did he just say he can fucking smell himself on you? _

_ The fuck??? _

You decided not to comment on his assertion, but that did not stop your stomach from flipping with- what, _ butterflies _ ? Why the hell did would him saying you smelled like him make _ butterflies _fill your gut? Maybe you’d had a bad batch of coffee. Or maybe it was the drugs again. Fuck. 

“...what’s the issue, then?” you asked, shaking yourself out of your stupor. 

“you welshed on your deal, kid. so even if ya did give me back my coat, we still ain’t even. now i’m thinking i want something else.”

Something like dread settled in your churning stomach with his words, and had you not sworn off liqour and drug related vomiting at work, you would’ve puked all over his red sweater. Instead you swallowed down your bile, face still buried in your hands.You weren’t sure you could meet his gaze without passing out.

“I’m broke,” you mumbled into the cracks between your fingers. “I swear to god I’m broke. I literally have _ nothing _of value for you. Unless you like student debt.”

“your bike is pretty nice.”  
You lifted your head from your hands, forgetting you didn’t have the strength to move, and stared him directly in his sockets.

“...you are not laying a single finger on my bike,” you stated with more conviction then you’d had in weeks, and for the first time since you’d met Sans, you were dead set on following through with your promise.

Sans had the gall to _ smile _at you. If you could call the sharp, amused, teasing smirk spread across his face a smile.

“calm down, kid. i’m just fucking with ya,” he said, like he was in the place to tease you like you were _ buddies, _ or _ pals, _or like you didn’t hate him with all your nasty, sqiruming guts.

“I’m serious. I have no money. Do you think I would be working in a place like this if I didn’t absolutely fucking have to?”

“i don’t want your money, kiddo. got plenty already.”  
“Then what the fuck do you want from-?”

And then you realized.

“... oh. Oh, no, I’m not going to- I’m not going to _ whore myself out _ to a fucking _ skeleton.” _ you burst, horror and disgust in your darkly lashed eyes. You were a lot of things, but a prostitute was _ not _one of them. “Just kill me. Anything but that.”

Sans seemed vaguely offended. Or maybe he was pretending to be. You had no fucking clue. “jesus, girly, will you shut up for one fuckin’ sec? i ain’t askin’ for ya to let me fuck you. unless that's something you're willing ta do. 'cause if you're up for it-"

“What the hell do you want from me?”

Sans let out a small huff of hot air through his teeth, tapping the tips of his fingers against the counter absently as he lifted his gaze up above your head with a facade of thoughtfulness. "Hmmn.” He made a face like he was debating something, before giving up making a show of shrugging again. “I dunno. haven’t given it much thought:”

“Then-”

“hows'about dinner?"

Whatever you'd been about to say abruptly died in your throat.

...the first thought that came to your head was him eating you. The second thought was similar to the first thought, except violently perverse and so unexpected you felt like your brain had just restarted. 

But you realized he wasn't asking to eat _ you. _

He was asking for you to eat with him. As in. A date.

“............Dinner," you repeated with an entirely blank face, uncertain you’d heard him correctly. 

He took your surprise in stride, eyes going half mast as he tilted his head to the left, leaning on the counter with both elbows and looking up at you through the tops of his sockets, where his eyelashes might’ve been. This close, you could smell the smoke and cheap colonge on him, and fuck if that didn’t make you dizzy as he watched you, all too comfortable with the situation he’d just forced you into.

"with me. how about you let me take you out to dinner?"

If your face had been pink before it was beet red now. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Bit your cheek. Opened your mouth again.

"...why do you want to go to dinner with me?"

"i'm hungry."

"What- what's that have to do with _ me?" _

He shrugged yet again."could use the company. 's just one night."

You took your first step back since the conversation had started and he noticed, eyelight glining with amusement and grin widening a fraction of an inch.

You were losing ground fast and both of you knew it. You swallowed. "Is- is this some, like, fucked up power trip or something or are you actually under the impression I'd want to go on a date with you."

"who said anything about a date? just dinner. what, you don't like free food?"

“I’m not going to _ date _you, I’d rather- I’d rather die.”

"i mean. that could be arranged, too."

"Are you threatening to kill me?"

"that doesn't sound like a very gentlemanly thing to do. seriously, kid, ‘s only dinner. maybe drinks."

"No."

"shit, princess, gimme a breakm i'm tryin' ta be an adult here. talk about some things that need ta be talked about."

"We don't have anything we need to talk about!"

"really? 'cause i'm sure you're real confused why that mark on your neck hasn't gone away, right?" He clucked his tongue and tapped the side of his neck, where your turtleneck had yet again slipped away from your hickey. Fuming, you unrolled it back up your neck.

It was true. You _ were _worried about it. You'd never had a hickey that had lasted this long before, much less one as red as it was.

"i just think we can sit down and talk things over and then we're good."

"Or you could, I don't know. Go fuck yourself."

“i could. or i could, i dunno. wreck that pretty little face of yours. or," he smiled up at you with a quirk of his lips that was sinful. "you could have dinner with me.”

Before you could respond, however, Sans' gaze fixed on something over you shoulder and his grin grew fixed. He straightened up almost immediately, taking a small step away from the counter and re tucking his hands into his pockets.

You squinted through your fingers up at him, only to see a distantly familiar, tanned, pretty teenager gazing at your with a mostly blank expression.

_ The monster ambassador, _ you connected. Kitty had told mentioned they'd been here, and she was right; they looked different, now. A little more leaned out. Hair a little more wavy then it'd been before. They were taller, too, though they were still tiny in comparison to the monster across them. Though anyone would, technically, since he was _ massive. _

But that hardly concerned you. What _ did _ concern you was the fact that your jacket was currently in the arms of somebody who was decidedly _ not _you. Anxiety at the thought of it leaving you prickled under your skin, creeping up and down your arms and sparking an overwhelming urge to lunge over the counter and rip it from their arms.

The dark haired teen was still damp and the skin of their neck and shoulder was red, mildly burnt as they clutched at the fur of your coat with small, tanned hands bundled in bandages. They were glancing between you and Sans with a strange, uneasily blank expression on their face, which Sans attempted to compensate for by forcing out a smile that was almost believable.

"you better now, kiddo?" he asked with a startling hint of actual _ affection, _with no undertones of sexuality or mockery or any of the shit he used when he talked to you. 

The kid ignored his question, tucking your coat under their arm so they could wave their hands at the skeleton. Sign language, you realized.

"i left it here a while ago. this nice lady was holding it for me," the skeleton responded, looking like he'd much rather be somewhere else. The kid was not impressed by his claim, their hands flying in protest of his response.

"..._ no, _i'm not lying. i left my coat at grillbz and this nice gal here accidentally, uh, picked it up."

...he wasn't a bad liar, but you could tell the teenager was not buying it. 

Sans let out a sigh, rolling his eyelights and turning back to you.

"the kid wants to hear it from you," he translated, giving you a very pointed look that dared you to dismantle his claim.

"Like, the truth? Or are we going with your-"

"-uh, she ain't deaf, you know. she can hear you. so you can, just. tell her yourself. the truth. which is what i just told her."

Instead of listening to Sans, because fuck that, you furrowed your brow at the girl. "You're the monster ambassador, then, right?" you said instead, a little forced. 

"yup, an' maybe you can just answer her question so she stops worrying her little head 'bout it, yeah?" Sans replied for her, gaze darting once towards to door, and you were struck with the realization he did not want you to be around his kid.

Specifically, he didn't want his kid to be there while he was talking to you. He was being nicer, now. A little less aggressive for the kid's sake. 

You stowed that knowledge away for later and instead considered telling the ambassador the raunchy, gritty reality of how you'd acquired the coat. It'd piss him off, that was for sure, but you had this terrible feeling Sans was already pissed and riling him up any more would lead to your immediate death.

"Yeah, I took it on accident," you finally grumbled, casting your eyes back down to your hands. They were visibly trembling.

"yup. just came to pick it up," He corroborated, sounding satisfied by your answer. The kid, on the other hand, did not look particularly convinced. She began signing again.

"...no. i barely know her."

More signing.

Sans let out a short puff of air through his nose. "no, i _ told you _, i barely know her. jesus christ, kiddo."

The ambassador was still skeptical. She glanced at you for a moment, then back to Sans. Her fingers did not move particularly slow, but they were fluid and smooth.

"i wasn't _ bothering _ her, i was jus' making small talk. being nice. i thought you wanted me to be more _ friendly. _i was being friendly an' now you're on my ass about it."

“Are you going to buy anything?” you interrupted, a little shakily. You were still nauseous and the pills were either wearing off or working too well, because the blood in your head was pounding. "Because I'm still on the clock and I'm not being paid to talk to you."

"yeah, well, don't get your panties in a twist, we're heading out now."

The kid made a face at him, confused and a little disappointed. He waved them off.

"we'll go to muffets or somethin' if you really want sweets. i ain't spending money here."

You took a deep breath, trying to keep yourself from throttling the skeleton to death. "...so you came in here _ just _to harass me, then? Just to waste my time?"

The kid seemed to agree with you, giving Sans a very judgemental look of disapproval.

He scowled back at them. "on principle i don't buy human shit. don't support it."

"That's really fucking racist."

He let out a small, humorless laugh. "yeah, well, humans hate us, so i'm allowed go return the favor."

"Humans don't hate monsters," you retorted defensively, even though you knew he was partly correct. Most humans were uncomfortable around monsters, although they might not be so obvious about it.

"you do."

Your cheeks went from a reddish blush to an outraged, deep crimson.

"I _ don't _hate monsters!" 

_ Well. Not specifically. _

"oh, so it's just me, then. glad to know it's just me personally and not my entire fucking race."

"I don't-"

"-what, you don't _ hate me?" _ He finished for you, and you bit your lip, because you'd nearly said exactly that. Out of reflex, you told yourself. Because you _ did _hate him. 

Obviously.

"...I don't _ care _enough about you to hate you," you finally mumbled, glaring at your chipped black nailpolish.

"yeah, i think you've made that _ abundantly _clear," he replied bitterly, before rifling through his pockets and pulling out a few wadded up bills. "for all the trouble," he supplied sarcastically as he crammed them into the tip jar, giving you an extremely unpleasant smile. "go buy yourself something nice."

Then he yanked his jacket out from the ambassadors arms and tucked himself into it, tugging the sleeves you'd rolled up back down over his wrists.

And before you could get out a word, he stormed away, jerking his head for the kid to follow him. She seemed concerned, glancing between you and Sans in a frenzy.

"_ kid," _Sans called impatiently, already slamming the door open.

Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, she mouthed an _ i'm sorry _to you before tearing her gaze away and hurrying after her skeletal chaperone. She ducked through the door just as it began to close.

It shut with a small tinkle of a bell, leaving you alone behind the counter, face pale, and entirely jacket-less.

About eight seconds after he'd left Kitty burst through the entry door, causing the welcome bell to go flying off its hinges entirely. She didn't seem to notice, nose pink from the cold, buns a mess from the wind, and the bag of groceries cradled in her freckled arms heaving with every ragged breath she sucked in. 

"I just," she panted, "I just saw the skeleton leaving, are you-" She dropped the groceries and clutched at her ribs with a wince, like she'd gotten a side stitch. "-are you okay?"

"Yeah," you said, voice shockingly even.

And then your legs crumbled out from under you and you plummeted into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so fucking long and hard to write. It's taken me like a solid month to figure out what I wanted to happen in this chapter. Thanks for sticking around, my homies. 
> 
> Chapters are harder to write, now, because I originally posted this fic in 2017 before taking it down a few months later, so the first few chapters of this new fic were mostly rewrites of chapters from the old fic. But i've decided i didn't like the direction the old fic was going so I'm writing all these new ones from scratch. I've finally figured out exactly where I want the plot to go, though, so I'll be posting more frequently. Hopefully.
> 
> Also lmk what u thought of this chapter! Or where you think this story is heading! Or any plot points. Like why sansy wants a date with our poor reader. If anyone gets it right I'll write a minor character of their choice (an oc of theirs or some shit) into the story. 
> 
> Aight yall im out. Thanks for reading and ill see u soon maybe?? In the meantime check out my other undertale fic. Okay yeah bye.


	8. Consequences, cont'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which problems from the past come back in unfortunate ways, Sans is a horny, bitter person, and you finally meet someone you don't actively hate.

Consequences, continued.

  
  
  


It wasn't just darkness surrounding you.

There was  _ nothing  _ surrounding you.

Empty space. Void. You were standing and that meant there  _ must've  _ been ground beneath you, but nothing solid. Nothing you could touch. Nothing that existed. The space between two atoms. Nothing. 

Dark dark dark. Like a vast, bottomless pit. Like the inside of a womb. Like the belly of a wolf. Black surrounded you, pressed in on you, filled your lungs and nose and eyes and ears with tasteless, formless air.

You glanced down at your hands. Though there was no light for your skin to reflect into your eyes, you could see yourself clearly. 

You curled your fingers into fists. Uncurled them. Watched your knuckles go pink to white to pink to white again. You had no apron on anymore, Instead, you were wearing some sort of smock- A hospital gown. You had no shoes on and your unpainted toes were stiff and cold against the not-ground.

You looked up. 

Nothing greeted you.

Just miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles of infinite darkness. 

"Not again," you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut. 

You hugged your arms into yourself and willed yourself to wake up somewhere else. Anywhere else.

You opened your eyes again and this time, someone else was with you.

They were far away. Distance didn't seem to exist here, so it was impossible to tell  _ how  _ far, but they were so far away they were little more than a streak of color. 

And maybe you shouldn't have gone confronting things that lived in the void, but something in you understood that whoever or whatever was with you didn't wish you any harm. And fuck, you needed  _ something  _ to hold onto in the nothingness, so you took a step towards them.

Then another.

You started walking. They did not turn around.

You broke into a jog. Still, you seemed no closer than before, your feet hitting a fathomless floor that seemed to move with you. No sound existed in the void except the beating of your own heart.

_ buh-bump _

You started running. Sweat clung to your brow as your hair whipped behind you, lungs burning around the thick, metallic air.

_ buh-bump _

_ Buh-bump _

Getting louder and louder, filling up the emptiness surround you. Magnifying the sound into your ears. Your hospital gown caught on nothing, flying around your thighs.

_ Buh-bump  _

The sound drowned out your thoughts, beating in the inside of your head. You were sprinting, now, but no matter how fast you launched yourself forward you seemed to be stuck in place.

_ Buh-bump buh-bumpbuhbumbuh- _

" _ Hey _ !" You finally called, voice choked off and raspy.

They turned towards you and-

  
  
  
  
  


_ Buh bump. _

  
  
  


Monitors chirped rhythmically in time with your pulse as machinery hummed lowly from some place you were unable to identify. A fan whirled quietly from above you, causing the fringes of the cement grey privacy curtains to your left to flutter as you cracked your eyes open, blinking blearily at the small clock set forlornly on the empty wall opposite you. 

11:43 AM

And that was strange, because the last time you'd checked it'd been nearly four in the afternoon and you'd been at the bakery. 

Your fingers curled around the fur lining of the snow jacket tucked under your arm, except that they didn't, because you  _ had  _ no snow jacket. Instead you had a thin, itchy blanket thrown over you, which you'd pulled up so high you could see your bare toes poking out.

For some reason, that wasn't enough for you to understand where you were. Instead it took about four seconds of staring at the end of the IV tube stuffed under the skin on your arm to realize you were in a hospital.

And you felt like absolute  _ shit. _

Your body ached more than an overambitious virgin on prom night, which was a nasty metaphor but you didn't have it in your to filter that shit out, and quite frankly, it was fairly accurate to how you felt. Your lungs stung and your head was heavy with fog, dusty, damp, stodgy. You felt like you were moving through molasses, or like you were in an RPG and your game was glitching.

You'd been in the E.R before. Five times, actually. Once when your dad got into into a motorcycle accident, another when you fell off the roof of your old house and broke your wrist, again when your dad passed out because he was drunk and you'd thought he was dead, another when he passed out and the doctors found out he had cancer, and most recently when you'd had your stomach pumped during college when your roommate found you unconscious in the bathroom.

… you had too many memories in the emergency room. But you knew how this went.

So after letting out a soft sigh, you reached down and pressed the  _ assistance  _ button. Then you leaned back, letting your eyes drift shut as you awaited your requested aid.

About forty-five seconds later a large, rather squat woman in pastel scrubs with skin like mahogany emerged from behind the privacy curtain, looking a little like she'd rather be anywhere than in a room with you.

"You're awake," she commented dully as she reached a plump arm over you and shut off the red assistance light. She smelled like disinfectant: mildly citrusy with an undertone of chemicals that made your head feel spongy.

"Unfortunately," you replied, voice claggy and unpleasant to hear.

The nurse made no sign she'd heard you, gathering papers off the small table beside your bed and squinting at the small lettering on the crisp sheets. She mumbled out your name to herself then glanced up at you.

"Welcome back to reality. You've been out for two days."

"Huh," you replied, conscious you should probably be freaking out at the thought. Maybe you were still high. 

"Your friend says you passed out and hit your head on the counter while you were working," she said bluntly, giving you a less than friendly once over. She didn't seem happy with what she saw, and quite honestly, you couldn't blame her. You probably looked like shit. 

"I don't remember that," you replied, though it  _ did  _ sound like Kitty to freak out and cart you off to a hospital rather than let you just sleep it off. Did she realize how  _ expensive  _ hospital care was? You could barely afford to splurge on laundry softener, much less an overnight stay at an ER. 

"Well, a concussion will do that to you."

"Concussion?"

She gave you a deadpan that seemed to suggest you were very, very dumb.

"...yes."

"I didn't pass out because of a concussion."

"No, according to-" she peered down at her paper with beady, glossy eyes, "- _Katherine_ _Kim_, you took medication that did not sit well with you."

You had never considered Kitty had been short for something, much less for a name like  _ Katherine Kim.  _ You couldn't imagine anyone ever calling Kitty  _ Katherine.  _

"..Just painkillers," you replied faintly, struggling to focus on the dark haired woman scowling down at you.

"Advil or prescription strength?"

You told her the name of the pills you'd taken.

"...and you took  _ how  _ many of these?"

"Just, like, three."

"I'm going to recommend you stop taking that medication immediately."

You coughed miserably, turning your head towards the small window to your right. It was overcast out.

"...yeah, maybe."

"You need a checkup and then you can leave. You should be fine."

She took your pulse, prodded at the pale blue veins under the translucent skin of your wrist. You squirmed, unpleasant imagery accompanying the sensation of having your arteries jabbed at.

The rest of the examination was conducted in relative silence, with her occasionally giving you instructions, like  _ follow the light with you eyes  _ or  _ count down from twenty backwards  _ and things like that.

She was still waving the flashlight in your eyes when you finally spoke.

"...what about the bill?"

"They'll give it to you up front," she replied shortly.

"I mean what's this costing me?"

"They'll tell you up front."

"I mean generally."

"They'll tell you up front."

There were a few moments of silence. You had a feeling she wouldn't appreciate you asking again.

She clicked off the light, letting out a sigh as she checked something off on your paper. "Your vision is fine. Anything else I should know about before I let you go?"

"No," you said, blinking as you adjusted back to normal light. Then, after a beat, "Actually, there is this, uh, kind of small thing."

She looked tired. "If it isn't urgent I don't need to hear about it."

"No, it's important."

She still seemed skeptical. Apparently she hated you for some reason. "This is the emergency room. It's an emergency?"

You felt warm suddenly, itching to tuck your hands into the pockets of your snow jacket. "It's this thing on my neck."

She sighed again and motioned for you to tilt your head up. You reluctantly angled your jaw at the ceiling.

"... Ma'am, that's a hickey."

"Can you just take a quick look at it? I got it, like, two weeks ago and It's still red and hurts."

"Hickeys don't hurt."

"Yeah, but it  _ does.  _ Like, it aches." Now that you'd brought it up, it was like a dam had burst. "And it hasn't gone away even though I put stuff that's supposed to help inflammation on it every night. And also I've been having really bad headaches and feeling dizzy and sick and, um, having weird flashes of things. And this stuff isn't stuff that I usually get so I'm just kind of freaking out and really worried something is really really bad, you know?"

She checked your neck.

"... you got this two weeks ago?" She asked, audibly suspicious. 

You swallowed thickly. "Yeah." You lifted your gaze away from her, anxiety bubbling violently in your gut as you debated what to say next. "Um- okay, so I don't know if it changes things, but a, um..." you dug your nails into your palms. "... a skeleton monster gave it to me."

She didn't say anything for a long moment.

"... hmm."

"Is that a good  _ hmm  _ or bad  _ hmm." _

But she did not answer you, instead collecting a few of your papers and making a face. "I'll be back in a minute. I'm supposed to report things like this."

"Report-?" Your throat closed. "Oh, jesus, nevermind. Shit. You don't have to report anything, it's fine."

But she was already out the door.

Oh,  _ fuck.  _ Was it illegal to fuck skeletons? Like, not necrophilia, but, like, a living monster made of bones? Were you going to go to  _ jail  _ because of this? Is this how you were going to be known? A pervert monster fucker?

You briefly considered ripping off the wires monitoring your vitals and diving out the window to avoid the bill and the unquestionable judgement and jail time you'd face over being a monster fucker, but before you could enact your plan a scrawny, tall-ish man- or boy, really; he couldn't have been more then twenty two- in a white, delicately wrinkled coat came staggering directly through the privacy curtain, nearly knocking the whole affair down.

"Aw, frick," he mumbled, throwing up his hands to steady the rocking curtain frame. Then he spun around towards you, eyes wide, cheeks pink, and shameless.

"Hello!"

You pressed yourself away from him, giving him a bewildered, mildly fearfully stare.

"Hi," you replied tentatively, holding the feeble blanket draped over you tighter into your chest, because holy shit was he a  _ mess.  _

He looked like he was running off cocaine and energy drinks, his brown eyes blown wide and his fawn colored hair irreparably disheveled. He had freckles all across his face, far more than Kitty had on her whole body, and bags under his eyes that were arguably darker than yours. 

Said eyes were scanning you fervently, darting up and down your body like he was searching for something. His fingers fumbled with the fringes of his coat, tapped against his arms, rippled thoughtlessly, like he couldn't stand to keep still. He was holding a clipboard with what was presumably your papers on them, flickering his attention between the documents and you very quickly.

"Ms. Ruby?" He asked, tilting his head down at you like a questioning puppy.

The name sounded foreign to your own ears. I'd been so long since you'd heard it. Something twisted unpleasantly in your gut and you turned away, swallowing down the lump of bile that had accumulated in your esophagus.

"... I go by my middle name," you corrected quietly. 

“But that is you, right? Mrs. Patel said I needed to go see a Ruby about a monster problem?”

“Yeah, I just. My dad called me that.”

Ruby. Or Rue.

Then he’d died, in a hospital room that looked nearly identical to the one you were in, and you changed your name and you didn’t like thinking about this anymore so you weren’t going to.

If he realized he'd said something upsetting, he didn't let on. "That’s fun. My biological dad was a real piece of shit," he remarked conversationally, pulling a small chair on wheels up from the corner and propping himself up across from you, swiveling boyishly in his seat. "He died, like, when I was, like, fourteen or something. But I kept my name. Even though it’s dumb.  _ Clancy _ . Like, Not even Lance. Like, Nancy, but Irish and for boys. Oh, yeah, uh, my name is Doctor Clancy O’Brian. But you can call me, uh. Doctor Clancy O’Brian. I’m really not supposed to have patients call me by just my first name."

You stared at him, at a loss for words.

"... sorry, how old are you, exactly?" you finally managed, because there was absolutely  _ no way this boy was older then you  _ and he sat up straight, looking a little sheepish. 

"Uh, like, Twenty-one and three quarters and I'm sure you're thinking-” He rushed on ahead before you could get in a word, “-like, _ wow, that's young _ , but rest assured I know what I'm doing. When it comes to medicine, I mean. I mean I made it this far, so that means I  _ have  _ to be good at this, right?”

He paused for a moment and you realized he was looking for a legiteament answer. When you did not give him one he pressed on, answering for himself. 

“Of course I am. I mean I didn't study that much in college but I still got good grades and now I'm researching all this monster stuff and getting funding from the state so they trust me and that means I know what I'm doing."

"And you're a certified doctor?"

"Technically? I'm currently studying the, uh, effects of human-monster interactions. You know how little research there is on that? It's, like, low-key, like, kind of annoying. Like the only information we have are books from like centuries ago and they're all just like,  _ Monsters are bad and we should kill them. _ Which is not very helpful from a medical standpoint. And there aren't that many humans who really interact with monsters that much. Except for the monster ambassador. Who has actually been very helpful! She's very cool."

Maybe it was because of the drugs, but his rambling was not as annoying as Kitty’s word vomits were. "You know the monster ambassador?"

"Yup! I mean. I've met her online. Not, uh, in real life, though. She's helping connect me with people who interact, uh, _ intimately _ , with monsters. For my study. Oh-!” He suddenly slapped his thighs, looking down at you with bright, bronze eyes. “-Speaking of, you said you’ve been having relations with a monster?”

Your face immediately went red and you quickly decided that no, you were wrong, he  _ was  _ as annoying as Kitty.

“I haven’t been having  _ relations  _ with him,” you retorted defensivly. "I fucking hate the guy."

"Hey, look, I don't judge. You do you, you know?"

"I swear, I'm serious, I hate him. It was just the one time thing and I was super wasted and basically don't even remember it."

Clancy- Dr. O'Brian, whatever- pulled out his phone, whose screen was badly, badly cracked, and began typing something. "Is that a thing that happens often?"

"I said the  _ one time." _

"No, I mean the, uh, being wasted part." 

"... I mean, like, I drink sometimes," you replied after a moment, not meeting his eyes.

"How frequently?"

"Does it matter?" 

"Yes," he responded frankly, ignoring the nastiness in your voice. "For the study."

"I don't want to be a part of your  _ study,  _ I just have this stupid fu- fricking hickey on my neck and it's not going away and I need it to."

You weren't sure why you'd censored yourself. He was barely younger than you. 

"Yeah, and that's why I'm here. Because I've been researching this stuff for the past four years as a career, so I, like, know how to fix things. They gave you a  _ hickey,  _ you said?" He changed the subject abruptly, eyeing your neck closely.

"I-" you snapped your jaw shut, blood heating your cheeks. You pressed your lips together. "I think so."

"Can I see?"

You were growing increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. You bit at the inside of your cheek.

"... I mean, sure."

The words had hardly left your mouth before he was reaching over the bed and leering so closely at your neck he’d might as well have climbed into bed with you.

“ _ Huh,”  _ he exhaled, breath warm and  _ way too close  _ for comfort.

You squirmed away and this time he grabbed your arm, keeping you still, still refusing to look away from your bruised skin. 

“Kind of handsy there, bud,” you mumbled, a distant feeling of nausea bubbling up your esophagus at his proximity. 

“I’m a doctor,” he replied, like that somehow negated the fact that he was completely invading your personal space. His hair tickled your face and you caught a small whiff of artificial apple, his shampoo or something. “When did you get this?"

"Like, I don't know. Three weeks ago? Two weeks?" The sterile hospital air felt cold against your skin. You wished you had your jacket.

"It's bright red," he remarked.

"Yeah, that's why I'm worried. I thought they lasted, like, two days, tops."

"Is the mark the only symptom? Has anything else been bothering you since? Like, fever, cramps, aches, headaches, anything?"

"Headaches sometimes, yeah." Then again, they could be hangovers. 

"How bad?"

"Well, this morning- or two days ago, I guess- I had a really bad migraine or something so I took a few painkillers and then, uh, passed out. And hit my head. Which Is apparently why I'm here."

"Yeah, what doctor prescribed those painkillers to you?"

"Uhm," you began, unsure how to tell him they were the painkillers your father had gotten from the hospital before he died. "I don't remember. I broke my wrist a few years ago and these were the pills they gave me."

"How many years ago?"

"Like five or six? I don't know." Which was a lie, but he didn't need to know that. God, he was  _ too close.  _

"Then they're long expired. They gave you those painkillers when you were a teenager?"

"It really hurt." You tried not to look at him.

"That's how addictions start."

"I'm not addicted to painkillers," you mumbled. Just alcohol. 

"There are  _ teeth  _ marks still," he mentioned suddenly. "Little indents. Did it have  _ fangs?" _

Before you could answer, he touched the hickey gingerly and-

  
  


_ "Shhhhhittt," you hissed, chest heaving, fingernails scratching at the back of his skull. Your skin felt like it was electric, shivers of- something- running up and down your body to settle in your head. Thinking was suddenly difficult, a beautiful, sinful fog filling your skull, making your brain soggy and something was not right. Your eyes were screwed shut, lips parted just enough to let out your heaving breath through your teeth, and oh god it was too much, too much too good too much it hurt and- _

_ "Oh, fuck, jesus fuck, wait, wait, oh, fuck, wait-" _

_ "shhhh, it's okay, sweetheart, it's okay, okay?" _

_ And you focused on that, his voice. Low and soothing, deep and rich and almost a purr and truly, completely stronger than you. "just breath, yeah? it's okay, kiddo, you're okay." _

  
  


"-does it hurt when I touch it?" O'Brian asked and you jumped back to reality like you'd just been hit with a defilbulator.

"Uh-" you stammered, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away from your neck. "Yes."

"Hmm." He did not try to touch you again. "What kind of monster did this to you?"

You bit down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood. Metalic.

You swallowed. "Skeleton."

“Those are pretty rare, yeah? Only like, two or three of those. That we know of.”   
Your head hurt and he was  _ too close.  _ You felt mildly sick to your stomach, like you were about to throw up. “I don’t fucking know. You’re the doctor.”

“And  _ you’re  _ the one who had a skeleton give you a hickey. We’re both weird.” Then he laughed. You did not. He coughed.

"Sorry. Unprofessional. Uh, do you know their name?"

"Look, man, I told you I don't want to be a part of your study, okay? Just tell me what this is." And god, it felt so much better to be mean to him. Otherwise you were just awkard and werid and made everybody, including yourself, uncomfortable.

He quirked his lips to one side. "Well, to be totally honest, I kind of haven't really seen anything like this before."

Not great things to hear. "I thought you've been studying this for four years?"

"Yeah, and I told you, humans and monsters don't really interact all that much. Much less come into a hospital because their monster boyfriend gave them a hickey."

You sucked in a harsh breath. "He's not-!"

"But I  _ have  _ seen something like this before,” he interupted before you could yell at him, and your temper died back down to a quiet simmer. “I just don't remember where, really. It wasn't a  _ hickey,  _ exactly, but I think it was, like, they had intercourse, and then the girl started getting all sorts of headaches and nausea and weird aches, which,” he glanced down at his clipboard, “is something you seem to also have.”

"Are you saying I'm fucking  _ pregna-" _

"-aw, jeez, no, no, yeah, no. No, sorry. No, that's not, like, physically a thing that can happen. No. She just, like, monsters and humans don't really mix, and- okay, like, I don't remember all the details, and I don't want to freak you out, so I'm thinking maybe I got read up on some hickey related things and see what I can find, and then I'll have you back in here and we'll go from there, yeah?" He peered at you cheerfully, a crooked smile across his freckled face. He looked a little unhinged with the bags under his eyes. 

"Back in- I'm not coming back here to be a part of some monster fucker study!"

Instead of getting mad, he actually had the gall to let out a laugh at you. Or at you calling it a  _ monster fucker study.  _ "It's not a monster fucker study, I'm researching-"

His laughter only pissed you off more. "Dude, I don't give a shit, I just want to go home, and if you can't help me with my neck thing It's pointless, you know?"

He threw up his hands in front of him. "Okay, okay, alright, fine, okay, I can't force you. You can go home right now if you want.” There was a brief pause. “But please don't.”

You ignored his request. "I'm clear to go, then?"

"I mean, like, probably. If Ms. Patel said so. The bill will just be, like, at the front."

"How much will this cost me?" You didn’t want to go up to the desk then make a fool of yourself by looking surprised, or more realistically, devastated at the bill.

"Me talking to you? Free, I guess."

"No, the two night stay in the ER."

"Oh, like, a few hundred, probably?"

" _ A few-?"  _ You retched. He did not seem to be concerned. "I don't have that much money right now. Like, that's my monthly grocery and rent right there. I'll be  _ homeless _ ."

He rocked forward on his seat, drumming his thumbs against the edge of the stool. " _ Welllll, _ if you decide to participate in the study, I might be able to get them to waive the fee," he said conversationally, but his eyes were glinting.

"...Seriously?"

"Of course!"

A beat.

"Well, probably. Or I can pay it for you. Or I'll tell the government it's for  _ science  _ or whatever."

"You can do that?"

"You'd be surprised how little the government cares when it comes to handing out money to 21 year old doctors studying monsters."

You had a horrible, nasty feeling about what he was saying, but also  _ money. _

"And what would being in your project mean for me?"

He shrugged. "Literally, like, barely anything. Just coming in when I email you. Also sending photo updates of your hickey."

"...that's it?"

"Yup."

"And I won't have to pay for today?"

"Nope! Unless you want to."

"Why would I want to?"

"I don't know, to support doctors? So you're in, then?"

You squinted at his expectant, shining face, a pit of trepidation sinking in your stomach, like you were in line to place your head in a guillotine.

"...why the fuck not?"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


…….

  
  
  
  


Sans silently stared into the gleaming, glowing entrance into the CORE, absently fiddling his cigarette between his razor sharp teeth.

The faint, reddish smolder of the coals at the end of the cig illuminated the smoke curling languidly out of the cracks besides his canines, rolling in spirals up across his skull to melt into the uncomfortably torrid Hotland air. 

Sweat beaded at his base of neck, slipping down the harsh edges of his vertebrae and plastering small strands of his coat's fur lining to his sticky bones. 

He said nothing. Didn't move. Just stood there, gazing into the looming machine sitting stagnant in front of him.

His coat smelled like you.

Like caramel. Vanilla. Something deep and sweet but with an undertone of something richer, stronger, like burnt sugar. It was real fucking distracting and not a scent for a man- a monster- like him to smell like.

He'd already washed the jacket  _ twice _ to try and get out your smell, which had helped a little. At least now he wasn't completly fucking inebriated everytime he caught a whiff of you on his coat. It had helped a little, but he'd still occasionally find a breath of you in the fabric and the smell would go straight to his head. Then to his, uh. Lower parts.

Which was bad, very bad, because he’d sworn to himself he wasn’t going to get himself off to the thought of you, because he was trying not to get attatched- trying real fucking bad not to get attatched to you- and he had a feeling imagining fucking you was not going to be helpful when it came to that particuar initative. He’d only caved in, like, once, and he could forgive himself for that one time, because that had been a pretty fucking bad night and he’d been drunk, but he wasn’t going to do it again. And he’d been doing pretty well so far, except that it had been over two weeks since he’d gotten properly laid and he was getting real desperate for some release. It didn’t help that he had an absolutely  _ filthy  _ mind and you had an absolutely  _ filthy  _ mouth that-

He pushed the thought away.

Anyways. Nobody else seemed to notice the smell. Papyrus didn't, thank god. All he knew is that nobody knew you even existed, so he's thinking maybe he's just losing his fucking mind. That or somehow his senses are hypersensitive when it comes to you. Which isn't good, not even a little bit, but hey. Good things don’t really happen to Sans. 

The CORE hummed softly around him, barely noticeable. Even now, after the Underground had been deserted, it was still running.

If anything, it was running  _ harder  _ than it had. Now that nobody- well, almost nobody- was using the energy it made, it had an excess of power. Just sitting there. 

Waiting.

“F-feeling nostalgic?”

Sans did not look up, instead flicking the ashes of the tip of his cigarette and watching them drift to his feet. His shoes were dirty and the laces were grey instead of white.

“not even a little.”

Alphys fidgeted with her stained gloves, letting out a short breath through her scarred, yellow snout. “You were s-supposed to be here yesterday.”

This was his third cigarette this day. Frisk had told him to stop smoking a long time ago. He’d told her he’d try, and he had, just not very hard. “something came up.”

“We’re o-on a time crunch h-here, Sans.”

“you don’t think i fuckin’ know that? i know.”

Alphys’ hands were shaking. As a doctor or scientist or whatever the fuck she went by now, her hands were supposed to be steady. He could remember when they had been, a long time ago, when they’d been working on the machine looming over them with their fucking bastard of a  _ mentor.  _ Then things had gone to shit and Alphys had been left with a stutter and shaky hands, and Sans had lost a tooth and his dear old man.

… he tore his eyes away from her claws.

“I haven’t gotten any s-shipments all week,” Alphys told him, tail flickering impatiently. “You promised me at  _ least  _ five shipments a month. Y-you know I can't do anything without-"

"-yeah, yeah, i get it. 'S not my fault. i been working my ass off tryn' ta find somethin- stronger then the green shit my guys keep findin'."

"A-and?"

"obviously i haven't fuckin' found it. " Which was a lie, but she didn't need to know that. "look, we gonna go to the lab or what?"

"Do you have a-anything on y-you now? S-shipments, I mean."

"i said let's go to the lab first. an’ just call them what they fuckin’ are. not  _ shipments.  _ nobody’s around."

Alphys ignored the last part of his statement. "You could've j-just gone s-straight there. d-did you really w-walk all the way down here?" She asked, jerking her head towards his feet.

His shoes were coated in a fine, rusty dust and left fragments of footprints on the sleek tile below him.

"needed to clear my head."

He’d had a bad week. Real bad. Bad enough he’d nearly plucked all the petals off the kid’s flower friend when he’d pointed out Sans was taking out his frustrations on Frisk. Not that the flower had been wrong. He  _ did  _ often take out his anger on the kid, because she was easy to get mad at. She was the reason this whole fucking thing was even happening, even if she didn’t know that. Even if she hadn’t asked for it. Even if she hadn’t done anything at all except treat him with kindness and try to cheer him up when he was in one of his many funks. It was still her fault.

God, he was a terrible person. 

But he’d never said he wasn’t. At least you understood that. Frisk didn’t. She believed he could be redeemed or fixed, but you knew some people were just screw-ups and there wasn’t anything to be done. He admired that about you. You understood the way the world was. You hated his guts and for good reason, because he was, as previously established, a terrible person who couldn’t even commit to being a terrible person. And you were way too good for him, anyways. Too pretty, too funny, too soft. 

God, so soft. He’d love to sink his teeth into you. To mark you up nice and good. To put a collar around your neck and keep you on a fucking leash. To make sure no body touched you ever again. That wasn’t a thing normal people- good people- wanted to do to others. 

But he wasn’t a good person. Obviously. 

Fuck.

Alphys' coat was grimy and had dark, handprint smears of something dark down the front. She smelled like gunpowder and diesel. "Are you d-drunk?"

"no."

His cigarette had burned down to a stump, the smoke suddenly acrid on the roof of his mouth. He let it drop to the floor, smothering it out with the toe of his shoe. 

"i'll meet you there."

And before she could get another stutter in edgewise, he’d disappeared.

……..

_ “Not again." _

_ _ _ …….. _

  
  


The room was gritty and poorly lit, with tools, both familiar and unfamiliar, scattered haphazardly around the floor. In the center of the room, cleaner then he’d seen it in a very, very long time, was a massive bronze machine that looked vaguely like an animal skull suspended from the ceiling with wires and tubing thicker than his body.

A few panels had been pried open, exposing a rainbow of wires and buttons and switches Sans could not remember how to function. He supposed Alphys was making more modifications. 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he dragged his gaze over the smooth planes of bronze. He’d helped plot out the plans for the machine, sketched out the beginnings of it, before he’d stopped caring about this shit. That had been so long ago. Decades, maybe. Things got fuzzy, sometimes. And he knew Frisk was partly to blame for that, but honestly, he wasn’t sure if he  _ wanted  _ to remember what he’d done in this lab.

Alphys came staggering into the room a few minutes later, breathing hard and glaring at him. Instead of saying anything, she just let out a resentful huff of air through her snout and headed straight towards the control panels to the left of the machine.

“Y-you didn’t touch a-anything, did you?” She asked as she punched a few buttons, accusatory.

“i didn’t touch anything,” he affirmed. “you fix the cooling system yet?”

“I told y-you, I’m w-w-working on it. T-there’s a l-lot more energy that’s going into th-the machine then originally intended a-and it’s hard to e-even keep it contained at all. b-besides, there are bigger problem t-then overheating. T-the machine can handle h-heat. I’m j-just having trouble stabilizing the p-power..”

Alphys’ flipped a switch and the machine groaned to life.

“T-this is just to extract. I-I’m still working on h-how it’ll transfer, b-because I’ve only e-ever really d-done this to m-monsters and you’ve s-seen how they’ve turned out.”

“yeah.” She’d turned them into  _ real  _ monsters. Melted their skin off. Turned their insides into liquid. In the best case, she’d killed them. In others she’d made them into deformed, grotesque  _ things  _ that were capable of very little but begging her to kill them  _ please please oh god please kill me please. _

_ _ “that can’t happen this time,” he said, and it was really a threat as much as it was statement.

“O-obviously.”

Her claws flew across the panel, twisting and pulling and pressing. The machine began to hum, small lights blinking at the bottom. Cyan to dark, deep blue.

“Tests h-have gone well. B-but it’s not ready. You s-said you have something for me?”

Sans watched the lights blink, projecting ghostly shadows across the floor. 

_ _ _ She was wearing ballet shoes. Not slippers. The ones that let you go all the way up onto the very tips of your toes, and they were soaked through with snow. If he didn’t kill her, the hypothermia would.  _

_ _ _ She was probably sixteen. Maybe a little older. Skinnier than a rake. He was surprised she’d had as much strength as she had, that she’d been able to weave and leap so gracefully out of the way of his attacks.  _

_ Most of them. _

_ It looked like she’d stolen one of the goat lady's dead kid’s sweaters and it made her look smaller than she really was. And she really  _ did _ look so small, leg twisted all wrong in front of her on the red snow as she stared at the pulsing, glowing blue SOUL between them. _

_ Tears ran down her face. Fear, maybe. _

_ _

_ _ “...Sans? You h-have something to give me, y-yeah?”

Sans tore his eyes away and tried not to think about  _ her _ . That had been  _ so long ago. _

“...yeah,” he said. He cleared his throat. “but first i need a favor.”

Alphys turned towards him, snout scrunched up severely. "I-I'm already doing you a f-favor."

"you're doin' this 'cause yer a sadistic, crazy bitch who gets off on this shit, not 'cause i asked ya to. i'm doin'  _ you  _ a favor, stickin' my neck out ta get you the shit ya can't get yerself."

"N-no, you're d-doing this because of F-Frisk."

Sans’ scowl went hard. "that's not your business."

Alphys held his gaze for one beat, two beats, before rolling her eyes under her fractured eyeglasses and turning back to the machine.

"W-what's the favor, then?"

He pulled out a phone. The lock screen glimmered to life, a wall of notifications informing you that  _ pink hair girl from work  _ had called five times and texted nine times covering the empty-headed looking cat on the screen. He ignored the texts hand handed Alphys the phone.

"i need ta get his unlocked."

Alpys scrunched her scaley brow together and peered down at the phone, her glasses nearly wobbling off her face.

"...w-why?"

"i need the information on it."

"Is this s-somebody you, uh-"

“they ain't dead," he said shortly, which did not seem to make Alphys feel better. If anything, she looked more apprehensive.

"And this doesn't have anything, uh, t-to do with our arrangement?"

"it's a personal thing. need to put the info onto, like, a harddrive or somethin'. before she wipes her phone."

" _ Her?" _

"nobody. look, lady, i need this done, okay? how long is this gonna take you?"

Alphys fiddled with her glasses, leaving a smudge of something on the lense. "I d-don't know, maybe a f-few hours? D-do you want me to copy down a-all the information or just something s-specific?"

"everything." 

"That might take a w-while."

"just get it done and i don't give a fuck."

And then the phone rang. Alphys fumbled with it, letting it slip out of her hands and catching it just before it hit the floor. "Oh fu-fuck, w-who's-?"

But it wasn't your phone which had just rung. The chime was coming from Sans' coat.

"that's me. wait a sec."

He dug his cellphone from out of his deep pockets, heart sinking as he read the name flashing on the screen. He let out a puff of air and turned away from Alphys, holding it to his ear patiently.

"hey, boss, what's going on?"

" _ WHAT DID YOU DO?" _

Sand jerked the phone away from his ear, wincing. Papyrus was always loud and boisterous, but  _ this  _ was a whole ‘nother level of volume. 

"-sorry, what?"

_ "I SAID WHAT DID YOU DO?" _

"... i don't know, boss, i really have no clue. what are you talking about?"

_ "DON'T PLAY STUPID, SANS." _

"i swear i don't know. i'm not tryin' ta be funny."

" _ THIS IS ABOUT THE HUMAN." _

_ _ Sans made a face. “...what, the kid? what happened? she okay?”

“ _ NO, NOT FRISK, THE GIRL FROM THE BAKERY. _ ”

“the-” But he cut himself off, bones going, if possible, paler than usual. He swallowed down the sudden lump that had swelled in his throat. “... the one with the pink hair?”

“ _ NO, HER CO-WORKER.” _

_ _ It was cool and damp in the lab, but Sans suddenly felt like there was something white hot at the back his spine. Perspiration prickled at his brow.

“...where are you right now?”

“ _ APPEARENTLY YOU VISISTED HER CO-WORKER AND NOW SHE’S IN THE HOSPITAL AND WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO, SANS?” _

_ _ “shit, wait,  _ hospital?” _

" _ DON'T ACT LIKE YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. YOU PUBLICALLY ATTACK A HUMAN AND NOW THAT HUMAN IS IN EMERGENCY CARE. DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW BAD THIS IS? FOR FRISK? FOR EVERYBODY? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU CAN’T CONTROL YOUR FUCKING TEMPER FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND-”  _

"jeez, paps, i'm- aw, fuck.”

Sans was distantly aware he’d just called his brother  _ Paps,  _ which was a nickname Sans had given him when he was just a little babybones that Papyrus  _ hated,  _ but he was too busy to care, because Papyrus had sworn three times already and Papyrus _ never fucking swore _ .

“where are you?"

"SANS-”

_ “where are you?” _

“THE BAKERY."

"i'll be there in two seconds. Fuck."

“DON’T HANG UP, YOU-”

Sans hung up.

“W-what happened?” Alphys asked, staring at him openly. She’d obviously heard every single word of that interaction. “You did  _ what?” _

"i dont know what the fuck he's talking about. she was fine when i was talking to her. she was  _ fine.” _

But that wasn’t true. You’d looked sickly and you’d been shaking. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

_ “ _ shit. listen, Al, i gotta go."

"W-what,  _ N-now _ ?"

"yeah. i'll check in later, yeah? tomorrow or somethin'."

He was just about to shortcut away when Alphys scrambled to her feet and jumped in front of him.

"W-what about the d-delivery? Don't you h-have something f-for me?"

"what?"

"T-the  _ shipment." _

Sans scowled. "the- _ ?" _

But then he realized what she was talking about, dropped his glare, and reached into his jacket to pull out what looked like some sort of thermos. 

She took it from him. "W-what kind?"

But he was already gone.

Alphys rolled her eyes under her cracked glasses and huffed, shuffling over to the towering machine and inserting the thermos into the small slot at the center of the machine. 

She fiddled with a few controls and the machine let out a violent hiss. She stepped back as the thermos twisted open and, with a flash of light, its contents filled the glass chamber.

Alphys pushed her glasses up her snout and peered into the machine, where a glowing, yellow SOUL stared back at her.

  
  


….

  
  


You were sitting in the back of a taxi, dressed back in the black turtleneck and bakery issued pink pleated skirt you'd been wearing when Kitty had dumped you at the E.R, and you were  _ not  _ in a good mood.

Partly because it was clear it had rained the day you'd spent in the hospital, and your bike had been parked outside. Partly because you'd just agreed to be in a study for people who fucked monsters, and partly because you were just in a bad mood for no fucking reason.

You weren't even mad, exactly. Just exhausted. Which didn't make sense, because you'd just slept over 24 hours. Maybe you weren't tired physically so much as mentally. Maybe you wanted to just go home and lie down at stare at the ceiling for six hours. Maybe you were just tired of getting up every day and talking to people and making money and spending money and coming home to an empty house and having no friends and no family and nothing in your future.

Or maybe you were just hungry.

It was late afternoon and the sun should be shining, but the streets were dark instead, gloomy and grey as the clouds blanketed the city. You watched the grimy building pass by in a blur, feeling a profound sort of emptiness in your gut you didn't know how to properly describe. 

You wished you had your jacket. 

You were nearing the bakery. You'd left all your stuff there, including your motorcycle and the keys to your apartment, so you'd just pick it up and then go back home. Even if Westley hated you, you were sure he'd understand you taking the rest of the day off.

You passed your apartment complex and briefly remembered your cat, and a surge of panic flashed through you. Shit, you hadn't fed him for two days, or changed out his litter. Was he alright? You weren't sure you could handle it if anything had happened to him. Like, mentally. 

You stared at the building until the taxi turned the corner, willing your kitty- or cat, not  _ Kitty- _ to be safe. If God really loved you, even just a little, He wouldn't make you come home from the hospital to a dead cat.

A few minutes later the taxi slowed at the front of the pink, inviting bakery, and dread filled your gut. You murmured out a quick thanks to your driver, who said nothing back, and paid him with the two twenties you'd been saving to pay for a new video game. 

He rolled away wordlessly the moment you closed the door. Shivering, you hugged your arms into your chest and headed towards the fogged up windows, stopping for a moment to pat your motorcycle.

Sighing and bracing yourself for Kitty's barrage of affection and word vomit, you entered the store.

The bell tinkled when you entered. Kitty must've fixed it while you'd been out, you though, wiping your shoes on the pink welcome mat before looking up and-

Kitty stared back at you from behind the counter, eyes wide, face flushed, and hands clutching her pink phone weakly. On the other side of the counter was a short haired teenager in a sweater, a lanky skeleton that couldn't have been less than seven feet tall, and Sans the Motherfucking Skeleton.

  
  
  
  


For a very, 

very,

very long moment, there was silence.

  
  
  


"... hi, kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams glass of chocolate almond milk on the table, breathing hard*
> 
> Anyways, lots of plot stuff in this chapter. We got new characters and learned a little more about Readz past. Also that she used to be called Ruby, apparently. But like as a nickname. Because this is a reader insert, so her name is whatever you want it to be.
> 
> Also Sans is a Bad Person! I just thought I'd remind you that this is an Underfell fic, and he's not just a charming, gruff version of undertale Sans. There's a reason Reader gets bad vibes from him. He's a horrible person. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around, guys. And thank you so much for commenting. Reading your feedback makes my day. I'm serious. 
> 
> See you soon! Next chapter is going to be WILD.


	9. Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sans gets a lesson in self-control and you make a decision that will undoubtedly damage your future.  
Or the chapter in which you and Sans spend more quality time alone in a bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she's wedged in between his legs and the sink is filled with muddy pink water  
and if he were a good man
> 
> (or even just a better one)
> 
> maybe he'd feel a little bit bad  
that he's ruining her life
> 
> (but he doesn't)

_ It was so dark in the void. _

_ But she didn’t really mind anymore. At least, opening her eyes didn’t split her brain open like it used to. It was almost peaceful here, completely silent, alone with nothing but her scrambled thoughts. She’d adjusted a long time ago to the darkness. _

_ She didn’t know when specifically. Time wasn’t relevant here. Especially because things were constantly looping, going back, getting disassembled and forced back together. She honestly wasn’t sure how old she was anymore. Physically? Probably a teenager. Maybe a few months older than Frisk, who was almost fifteen. Again. If the kid would just stop fucking RESETTING they might be in their early twenties by now. _

_ But, you know. Some people just don’t can't move on. _

_ And it really was unfortunate, because she liked Frisk. They could've made a great team. _

_ But Frisk refused to understand, no matter how many times she tried to explain it to them. And while it wasn't ideal, it was okay, because she didn't need Frisk to understand this time. She'd made sure of it, that she'd never need anyone again. Planned everything down to the tiniest detail. _

_ Although planning had never really been her style, had it? She was debilitatingly impulsive. Had been ever since she was little. That’s why she’d jumped into the underground in the first place. Why she poisoned herself. _

_ Why she’d died. _

_ But that had been so long ago. _

_ She'd gotten smarter since then. Stronger. The stakes were too high to be reckless anymore. Everything was finally going to work out. No more RESETS. No more stupid little goat brothers to pussy out on her. _

_ No more interference from that stupid fucking skeleton. _

_ For once, Chara was going to win. _

_ The thought filled her with DETERMINATION. _

  
  


…………………………….

  
  
  


Contrary to popular belief, Papyrus the Great and Terrible cared about his brother. 

Papyrus had always held a certain degree of infamy in the underground and while he was proud of it, he wasn't exactly on good personal terms with anyone. They respected him, probably feared him, perhaps even revered him, but Papyrus wasn't foolish enough to believe that he was their _ friend. _Which was fine, because good leaders don't need friends. Just followers.

Sans wasn't his friend, either. but he was probably the closest thing Papyrus had to one until Undyne. As much as he hated to admit it, Sans had taught him almost everything he'd known, taken care of him, even though they weren't close _ now. _ Sans barely spoke to him anymore. Which he was fine with, obviously, because Sans was loud mouthed, alcoholic, good-for-nothing pile of wasted potential. But Papyrus still _ cared _about him. As shitty as Sans was, he was still his brother. 

Papyrus could forgive his brother for most things. He cut him a lot more slack then Sans deserved. He fixed things for his brother. Made the consequences of his temper go away. He forgave his brother's behavioral issues and even tried to mend them, to make sure Sans didn't burn too many bridges. Like when Sans ripped petals off Flowey and Papyrus went and healed the plant, made sure that Flowey wouldn’t mention it to Frisk, because Sans cared about Frisk's opinion of him. Which was saying something, because Sans cared very little about anything. 

Or how he pretended not to know when Sans ditched work to go fuck around with some cheap girl he’d picked up at some bar somewhere. 

Or how he Paid people off so they wouldn't go tattling when Sans went into one of his fits and hurt somebody.

In short, Sans fucked up a lot and Papyrus was always there to pick up the pieces.

But Sans had gone too far, this time. Fucked up too much. 

Sans had always had a weak spot for human females. For any female, really, but Papyrus had known about Sans’ infatuation for a long time and never brought it up. Which was a big fucking mistake, looking back on it. He should’ve known better. Because Sans didn’t know how to handle his feelings and when Sans didn’t know how to handle something he usually got mad, and when Sans got mad he hurt people. 

Badly.

And Papyrus cared about Sans too much to let him get away with it.

“where is she?” Sans demanded the moment he blipped into existance, out of breath and ignoring Papyrus and Frisk completely as he stumbled up to the desk. The girl behind it blinked twice, her big, big eyes slightly glossy and brimming with confusion at the sight of the skeleton who had quite literally appeared out of thin air in front of her. 

Sans did not give her any time to respond. “_is she fuckin’ dead? _where the fuck is she?”  
“SANS,” Papyrus said once. Sans did not seem to hear him.

“fuck. what the fuck happened? i was here like, two seconds ago. and now she’s-”

“SANS.”  
“-just _gone _just like that? she was- she was fine, _is she okay-?”__  
_ _“SANS.”_

Sans finally turned to his brother just in time to see Papyrus’ fist hurling towards his face.

_ CRACK. _

“_ Fuck,” _Sans hissed, clutching at his jaw, blinking wildly. The strange pink haired girl on the other side of the counter let out a shriek and jumped back, and Frisk grabbed Papyrus’ arm and jerked him away from his brother with more strength then a girl her statue would be expected to possess. Unfortunately for Frisk, Papyrus was still stronger than her.

He shook Frisk off him with ease and advanced on his smaller, older brother, who had not quite recovered from the shock of being punched in the face. It really was a jarring thing, getting smacked in the nose. Papyrus did not give him time to collect himself. 

“WHAT IN THE FUCK,” he began, reeling his fist back again and hitting Sans square in the chest, knocking all the wind out of his ribcage “DID YOU DO,” he grabbed Sans’ by the front of his sweater as he fell backwards, pinning him to the counter and smacking him across the face with a loud _ clack _, “TO THAT GIRL.”

“f-_ fuck, _boss, i didn’t,” Sans sputtered through his teeth, hands flying to protect his face. “didn’t do anything, i- i swear-”

He hit him again, so hard he could hear his teeth rattle in his skull. 

“STOP LYING TO ME,” Papyrus spit, almost trembling. 

“Please stop, oh my god,” Kitty burst from behind the counter, twisting her hands in her apron like she wasn’t sure what to do with them. Papyrus barely heard her, gaze fixed on Sans, whose mouth had begun to bleed.

“t-the kid was there, ask frisk, s-she knows-”

“FRISK LIES FOR YOU CONSTANTLY. DON’T BRING HER INTO THIS.”

“s-shit, i didn’t- couldn’t _ hurt _her, paps,” he said, and Papyrus smacked him across the head again. Frisk tried to wrench him off his brother again, but Papyrus was immovable. 

“I KNEW SOMETHING WAS UP. ALL THE SNEAKING AROUND. DISAPPEARING FOR DAYS. DID YOU _ TOUCH _HER, SANS?”

“i _ like _her, papyrus, why the fuck w-would i- could i-”

Another punch. Any more force and Sans’ eyelights would be knocked straight out of his sockets. This time, though, Sans did not try to protect himself, and Kitty began to cry audibly.

Papyrus did not enjoy hurting his brother. He cared about Sans, probably more than he cared about anyone. Sans had

“SHE’S IN THE HOSPITAL. YOU’RE ASSAULTING HUMAN GIRLS, NOW?”

“Please stop hitting him, oh my god, I said I’d- I don’t know if he- please just-” Kitty blabbered, hugging herself and looking a little like she was going to puke. “God, please stop hitting him, I didn’t- I’ll call the police, just- oh, god, please _ stop-! _”

“paps-”

Another punch to the face shut him up.

“PEOPLE’VE TALKED, SANS. SAID THINGS. AND I PROTECTED YOU. TOLD THEM YOU WOULDN’T, YOU WOULDN’T EVER. COULDN’T EVER HAVE MARKED UP A HUMAN LIKE THAT. YOU WEREN’T LIKE THAT ANYMORE.”

Sans said nothing. Moisture prickled at the corner of his eyelights, glittering under the warm lights of the bakery. The tears were probably from being punched half a dozen times in the face, but he’d also gone silent, so it was hard to tell. 

Papyrus didn't want to hurt Sans. Sans was his brother. He'd raised him.

Which was why he had to do this. Because Sans had taught him to punish people who did wrong, because that was the only way to make them listen. Sans had never hit him, but he'd seen him hit other people. And usually those people _ did _stop doing whatever they'd done that had pissed Sans off so much. And if they didn't, they'd learn their lesson another way.

Sans had so much potential, and Papyrus was determined to help him live up to it. That aching, nasty throb in his chest that grew with every punch was just something Papyrus would have to deal with in order to make his brother a better person.

“CAN’T EVEN DEFEND YOURSELF. YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOUR ACTIONS ARE UNDEFENDABLE.”

Another smack. Sans let his head roll to the side with the force of it, refused to straighten himself afterwards, just stared at the floor, gaze foggy and unfocused. Blood dribbled down his chin and onto his sweater.

“YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? NO EXCUSES? NO EXPLANATIONS? DON’T YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY? OR ARE YOU GOING TO JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT LIKE YOU DESERVE?”

And for a long, long moment, there was silence.

  
  


“Jus’... do what you got to do, paps.”

And before Papyrus had time to properly process anything his brother had said, the door swung open and you entered the building.

You were standing quite still on the pink rainmat in front of the door, hair disheveled, visibly sweaty and skin sickly pale aside from splotches of feverish red on your cheeks and nose. You were wearing a pleated pink skirt very similar to the one the girl in front had on and a turtleneck sweater just tight enough to draw attention to the swell of your breasts and the dip of your waist. A gust of icy wind pushed itself into the shop as the door closed behind you, sending a wave of crisp, cool air into the suffocatingly toasty belly of the bakery. Perhaps a portion of your debauched appearance could be attributed to the weather, but it seemed to Papyrus as though you might’ve been afflicted by some sort of plague. You weren’t gaunt or particularly frail, however; in fact, you might’ve been considered attractive by human standards, although Papyrus wouldn’t know what those were. 

You said nothing. It appeared the sight in front of your had knocked all the words out of your head.

Papyrus abruptly let go of his brother and Sans toppled over, grunting as he caught himself against the counter and rubbing at his jaw where Papyrus had punched him. Frisk was immediately at the shorter skeleton’s side, tension visible in her shoulders as she worriedly wrapped an arm around his broad chest and tried to steady him. 

Far from being grateful, however, Sans roughly shoved her off him. The girl stumbled back, confusion and hurt flickering on her usually stoic face as she twisted her bloodied hands together. At this point it was unclear if the blood belonged to her or to Sans, who'd caught himself on the counter behind him and was coughing wetly, staring down at the floor in either defeat or humiliation or maybe something else entirely.

For a few long moments, the only sound in the bakery was Sans’ shuddering breathing. Blood dripped down his chin and onto the pinkish tiles at his feet, creating erratic, scarlet splattered patterns below him, like a fucked up valentine's day card. His face was a mess of red and spit and tears, and while Sans was by no means small, Papyrus couldn't help but be struck by the size difference between him and his brother.

You continued your silence.

Seconds passed. Maybe dozens of them. Hundreds. It was impossible to tell, the quiet stretching on and on and on until he sniffled and wiped at his mouth, leaving a small smear of blood across the sleeve of his jacket. 

And then he let out a laugh. Small, bitter. Maybe Papyrus had hit him too hard in the head. Sans coughed on his own blood. Swallowed. Didn’t look up.

“hi, kid.”

You stared at him with an expression on your face Papyrus didn’t know how to describe. He didn’t know if that was because he didn’t know how to read humans or because you had a look that he’d never seen on anybody before.

“Jesus Christ, Sans," you said, not sounding particularly surprised at the sight of the skeleton, bleeding and slumped over himself. You seemed tired. Perhaps even concerned. Why you would be concerned about the health of someone like Sans was beyond Papyrus, but humans were weird like that. You took a step forward and then rather abruptly stopped yourself, like you realized what you were doing. Fingers curled in the fabric of your skirt. "Jesus _ christ, Sans, _are you okay?" 

“HE’S FINE," Papyrus responded for his brother. Sans was always fine. "YOU SHOULD PROBABLY LEAVE NOW."

You did not move. Didn’t even acknowledge Papyrus had spoken. Which was very rude and Papyrus did not tolerate rudeness from anyone, especially humans, who proclaimed to hold themselves to higher standards than monsterkind.

"I SAID YOU SHOULD PROBABLY LEAVE NOW. THIS DOESN’T INVOLVE YOU."

No one responded. Maybe because he’d just half beat his brother to death and no one wanted to upset him any further. He didn’t suppose it mattered much, because it’d suddenly became crystal clear to him that-

“WAIT, _ YOU’RE _ THE GIRL?” he asked contemptuously, brows furrowed so deeply it might’ve looked comically had his fists not been covered with his brother's blood.

You continued to ignore him. You would not look away from Sans, who continued to refuse your gaze. 

Papyrus let out a huff of air, turned, and slammed his gloved hands on the counter. Kitty yelped, bringing her pink phone up to her chin as he glowered down at her. “IS THAT PERSON OVER THERE YOUR CO-WORKER?” 

Kitty looked a little like a deer in headlights, her doe eyes flickering past him to meet yours pleadingly. Her eyelashes were still wet and there were mascara tinted tear tracks cutting through her blush, and Papyrus felt a sudden, unwarranted pulse of guilt for making her cry. 

Which was strange, because Papyrus made people cry often and had never felt particularly bad about it. Crying was for the weak. Maybe it was her hair or something that was throwing him off. So pink. Hair wasn't supposed to be pink. Also, Kitty was a dumb name. Unlike Papyrus, which was a respectable and normal name he was quite proud of. 

Kitty nodded once and Papyrus set his jaw, turning back towards you.

"I'M VERY SORRY FOR MY BROTHER'S ACTIONS, HUMAN. I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE CAN DO TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT, BUT REST ASSURED, I'LL MAKE SURE HE KNOWS WHAT HE DID WAS WRONG."

"He didn't do anything," you snapped quite suddenly, with enough venom to make Papyrus take a small step backwards.

"...I BEG YOUR PARDON?"

"He didn't do anything to me. Holy shit,” you exhaled, running a hand through your rumpled hair and casting your eyes upward in disbelief. The whites of your eyes were bloodshot and you moved with a kind of uncoordinated giddyness that seemed to suggest you were not entirely of sound mind. 

Kitty sniffled and wiped at her big brown eyes, smearing mascara in a stripe across her freckled arm. “But- but you had to go to the hospital.”

“Unrelated reasons. Not his fault.”

Sans continued to stay silent. Papyrus couldn’t see his face from the angle he was at, but it didn’t seem like he was looking at you.

*_ that's what I was telling you! _Frisk cut in, signing vigorously. 

Papyrus let out a dismissive huff of air. “YOU LIES FOR SANS ALL THE TIME. IT PROVED NOTHING.”

*_ I don’t lie for him all the time! _

“YES YOU DO. DO YOU NOT REMEMBER ALL THOSE TIMES I’D ASK YOU WERE HE WAS AND YOU’D SAY HE WAS AT HIS STATION? BUT HE WAS REALLY JUST AT GRILLBYS? OR TALKING TO TORIEL? OR HIDING BEHIND A TREE AND WAITING FOR ME TO LEAVE SO HE COULD HANG OUT WITH YOU?”

Kitty’s gaze darted between the girl and the larger skeleton, voice still warbling. “Wait, she was telling you that- Frisk knew he didn’t do anything?”  
“THAT’S WHAT SHE WAS TELLING ME.”

“And you- why didn’t you tell me that?”

“BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T WANT HIM TO GET INTO TROUBLE. AND MIGHT I REMIND YOU, _ YOU'RE _THE ONE WHO TOLD ME HE'D ASSAULTED THE GIRL IN THE FIRST PLACE."

"I- I didn't know you'd _ hit _ him!"

"WHAT ELSE DID YOU EXPECT?"

She flung her trembling palms up towards him, shaking her pink head hopelessly. "I don't know! Not- not _ that. _Like- Like you'd sit him down and- and talk to him?"

"I DID TALK TO HIM.”  
“You beat him up!”

“WHILE TALKING TO HIM. HE WAS GETTING RETRIBUTION FOR HURTING THE GIRL. BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME HE HURT HER.”

“Because he did! I was- I saw him at the bar with her and she was so scared and cried all the way on the drive home-”

“No I didn’t-”

“-And then I see him running out of the shop and when I come inside she collapses and hits her head and I had to send her to the ER because he tried to _ kill her.” _

"Kitty, what the fuck. That’s not- I passed out because I overdosed on expired pain meds like a retard. Sans had nothing to do with it."

Kitty looked like she was about to cry again. She’d begun to let out these small, high pitched whimpers and her breathing had become shallow. "But at the bar, you said you needed help and- and you looked really worried and I-"

"No, it’s fine. I mean, you didn’t know. And I appreciate you looking out for me, but I think somebody just got beat half to death because you poked your nose in my business and decided to tell the whole world about it, so maybe don’t go around telling people somebody tried to kill me until you have the full story next time. Yeah?”

Papyrus shook his head vehemently. This had all become rather confusing. “WAIT, SO. JUST TO BE CLEAR, HERE, HE REALLY DID NOTHING TO YOU?"

"_ Nothing. _ Jesus, is that why you beat him up?"

"I DID WHAT I DID WITH THE INFORMATION I WAS GIVEN. I WAS _ TOLD," _Papyrus started, shooting a pointed, betrayed look at Kitty, "THAT MY LOW LIFE BROTHER HAS BEEN HARASSING YOU."

"Yes, well, maybe check your sources next time.”

“...b-but that the bar, you called and he was- he wasn’t letting you leave, remember-?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was pretty wasted then. Sans, are you alright?”

Sans did not answer you. Frisk had given up on trying to talk to him and was now just watching the blood from his nose drip to the floor.

Kitty swallowed thickly. Her face had gone the same color as her hair.

"...Are you sure he didn’t hurt you? I know you hit your head pretty hard-"

"I'm sure."

"THEN HOW DO YOU KNOW MY BROTHER? BECAUSE YOU OBVIOUSLY KNOW HIM.”

You let out a hot exhale. "I don’t know. We're just, like… acquainted. I’ve talked to him, like, twice. That’s it."

“THAT’S IT?”

“Yup.”

“SO JUST TO CLARIFY, YOU’VE ONLY MET HIM TWICE?”

“Yeah. Like, two or three times.”

"OKAY. SO YOU DON’T REALLY KNOW HIM VERY WELL AT ALL THEN?”

“Not at all.”

“ALRIGHT. SO, WHEN YOU SAY TWO OR THREE TIMES, ARE YOU COUNTING THE TIME YOU TWO SLEPT TOGETHER?”

You choked on air, face going a curious mixture of pale and flushed at the same time. You coughed twice, caught yourself, and shook your head. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’VE BEEN TOLD BY CREDITED SOURCES THAT MY BROTHER AND YOU HAD AN INTIMATE ENCOUNTER AT GRILLBY’S A FEW WEEKS AGO.”

_ *What??? _

“What?” You asked, sounding a little as thought you might throw up.  
“AND THAT HE’S BEEN TALKING LOTS ABOUT YOU. ASKING AROUND ABOUT A HUMAN GIRL WITH A MOTORCYCLE LIKE YOURS. SO I’M JUST WONDERING IF YOU SAY YOU’VE ONLY SPOKE TWO OR THREE TIMES YOU’RE COUNTING THE ENCOUNTERS WHERE YOU TWO HAVE HAD INTIMATE RELATIONS.”  
“You had sex with the skeleton?” Kitty asked, mildly horrified.

“I- No! I mean-”

“THAT IS YOUR MOTORCYCLE OUTSIDE, IS IT NOT?”  
_*you’ve been fucking sans?_

“FRISK. LANGUAGE. BUT ANSWER THE QUESTION. I KNOW YOU HAVE SO I JUST NEED TO KNOW IF YOU CONSENTED OR IF HE’S BEEN STALKING YOU.”

You seemed thoroughly overwhelmed by the barrage of questions they’d hurled your way. You took two steps backwards. “He isn’t stalking me,” you finally managed, although there was little conviction behind your words.

“SO YOU TWO ARE DATING, THEN?”

You let out a loud, short laugh. Then caught yourself. Then shook your head, pressed the flats of your palms to your eyes, curled in on yourself, rocked back on your heels and let your hands fall away. “You know what? Why the fuck not. Sure.”

For the first time since you entered, Sans looked up.

Kitty’s head was turning like a top on her head. “You- you’re _ dating _him?”

“Sure.”

_ *Sans? _

“MY BROTHER?”

You seemed suddenly resolved, much more certain of yourself then you had just moments prior. “Yes. Yeah, that’s what I said. Don’t cream your pants.”

“WHY WOULD I PUT CREAM ON MY PANTS? AND SINCE WHEN DO YOU _ DATE _ PEOPLE, SANS? IS THIS WHY YOU'VE BEEN DISAPPEARING AND ACTING SO SUSPICIOUS THE PAST FEW MONTHS?"

"You two have been dating for _ months?" _Kitty shrieked, clutching her heart over her apron.

"WHY WOULD YOU DATE _ HIM? _HE'S INSUFFERABLE. AND LAZY. AND HE'S DRUNK HALF THE TIME."

Your hair was growing increasingly untidy the most flustered you became and the more that you pulled at it. “Because- because he’s nice- has a nice voice, i guess, I don’t- fuck, I don’t know! Why the fuck does anybody do anything?”

“DON’T CURSE IN FRONT OF FRISK.”

“You just beat you own brother to a pulp in front of her and I’m not allowed to fucking _ swear?” _

“HE DESERVED IT! I THOUGHT HE HURT YOU- TOUCHED YOU.”

“Well, thank you for the concern, but again, I’m a big girl and I don’t need you attacking people for my sake. I mean, look what you did to his _ face.” _

“HE’S FINE.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“‘m fine,” Sans mumbled weakly.

_ “ _Shut the fuck up, Sans,” You replied.

Kitty was still shaking her head, propping herself up against the counter to keep herself from falling. Her apron strap was askew on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m still just, um, confused. You’ve been dating him for months?”

You seemed to be growing impatient. “_ Jesus christ, _ Kitty, _ yes. _Now let me go take care of my skeleton boyfriend’s fucked up face.”

“What?”

“I’M VERY CONFUSED.”

“Cool,” you said, striding up straight towards Sans and grabbing his hand. Sans almost seemed like he was going to struggle, but as soon as you applied any force at all he caved in, stumbling after you as you tugged him behind the counter and over into the bathroom, leaving Kitty, Frisk, and Papyrus to stare after you.

The bathroom door slammed shut. The lock clicked shut.

And for a long, long time, there was silence.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOUR FRIEND?”

  
  
  


….

  
  
  


_ "We ain't going to the hospital," he said gruffly, even as blood dribbled down his stubbled chin. "They ain't gonna do nothing more then charge a thousand bucks for a bandaid. I don't need that." _

_ His words were slurred slightly. He smelled like sweat and blood and booze. You hated the smell of booze. _

_ "Dad," you said once, quietly. _

_ Under the icepack you'd given him, his left eye was red, green, purple, swollen shut. Now that you'd wiped all the blood off his face, it seemed like his nose was broken. Again. _

_ He hadn't even tried to lie to you this time. You weren't sure if it was because you were in highschool now and he thought that was old enough to know the truth, or if he realized he'd already used the "i fell off the bike" excuse seven times and he couldn't think of a better one. _

_ "There's some advil or somethin' in the bathroom cabinet, top shelf." _

_ "I know," you replied. _

_ He knew that you knew. Or maybe he'd forgotten. He was usually too drunk to remember these nights anyways. Or he never mentioned them, at least. Didn't even acknowledge that they happened. _

_ You turned and started towards the bathroom, where his half empty bottle of pain meds were waiting in the cabinet. You could grab a clean towel while you were in there. Maybe even wash the blood off your hands. _

  
  
  
  


…..

  
  
  


You were holding his hand and maybe if his brother hadn't just beaten all the sense out of his head, it wouldn't affect him as much as it did. Because while this was not the first time Sans had been dragged into a bathroom by a woman, it was the first time you'd voluntarily touched him since that night and he was maybe just a little bit overwhelmed by the sensation of your skin.

Or again, maybe his head was just broken, because the feel of your warm palm on his should _ not _bother him as much as it did. 

If it had been any other situation, he assured himself, he'd shake you off. Tell you to go fuck yourself because he didn't need your fucking pity or your fucking help. He didn't need you to put your hands on him like that, like he was some little girl, like your little fucking boyfriend. You were in no position to be holding his hand and dragging him places, because Sans was a bigshot bad boy who'd killed people- literally actually murdered people- and he wasn't going to let a somebody like you, all tiny and annoying and soft and warm and pretty with your hair all fussed up and makeup smeared and face flushed and your nose all scrunched up like a little bunny or something 'cause you were worried and then you were shoving him into the bathroom and shutting the door and he realized he'd forgotten to be mad at you.

"Sit," you demanded, letting go of his hand and shutting (_ and locking) _the door behind him.

And while Sans did not take orders from anybody, his head hurt a little too much to think about it and something about your voice made it so easy to just _ comply. _He struggled with himself for a few moments, trying to decided whether to preserve his dignity or not, when you huffed, grabbed his shoulders, and directed him towards the counter besides the sink.

"_ Sit," _you said again, significantly less patient, and after a second he hoisted himself up onto the edge of the counter, which groaned under his weight. 

He continued with his uncharistic silence as you swung open the cabinet below him, bumping into his dangling legs as you rifled through the spare rolls of toliet paper and paper towels as Papyrus and the pink haired girl- Kitty or whatever the fuck her name was- argued in hushed voices outside. Neither of them were making any particular attempt at being quiet, but Sans found it was fairly easy to tune them out by focusing on the pain, which had reached absurd levels of intensity.

You finally resurfaced with a red first aid kit in your hands and plopped it down besides him wordlessly. Sans' half lidded sockets followed your small hands as they went, watching without really watching as he dragged his thumb across a stray crease in his pants.

"...he really fucked you up, huh." You said, probably looking at him, but he couldn't be sure. He refused to look up.

"'m fine." Even his voice was hoarse. Not very convincing.

You hummed out something in acknowledgement that he'd spoken, flipping on the warm water and letting it heat up as you ripped a few paper towels out of the dispenser.

He curled his fingers into the fabric of his shorts. He didn't want to look at you. Or he didn't want you to look at him. Maybe both. 

You ran a towel under the steamy water, just long enough to soften it up a little. Wordlessly you stepped over to him, your hips filling his vision.

A finger tapped his knee. Once, twice. Instinctively he parted them, just an inch, maybe, but that was all the give you needed to wedge them apart and step in between his legs, the swell of your hips pressed against the inside of his thighs as you took his face in one hand and wiped at the blood on his skull.

And oh _ fuck _you were so close.

The hand on his shorts curled into a tight fist as he let out a shuddering breath that you hopefully didn't hear. Unfortunately, because of your proximity, it was almost impossible for you not to have. He'd write it off as brain damage if you mentioned it, except you didn't. Just kept dabbing at his brow, trying to tilt his head up towards you.

He felt exceedingly uncomfortable, like he was doing something taboo by letting you touch him like this, all soft and just kind of _ gentle. _Sans was not the kind of person to sit back and let others take care of him, because even though he was debilitatingly lazy, he had far too large an ego to allow others to do things for him. 

But this was different, somehow. He couldn't tell you exactly why, but it was.

“Lots of blood for somebody who doesn’t have skin,” you spoke suddenly, voice barely above a murmur.

“yeah,” he replied, throat dry. 

"How does somebody made out of bones get a black eye?"

"different kind of bone then you got."

"What kind?"

"You ask a fuckin' lot of questions."

"Yeah," you agreed shortly.

It was hard not to meet your gaze when you were forcing his face upwards into the light, gingerly wiping away at the blood, but he was doing a pretty good job of it, anyways, keeping his eyelights trained on his lap, away from your searching, piercing stare and your long eyelashes and flushed cheeks and red, red, lips, slightly parted and glistening with moisture.

You pulled back and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as you threw the wadded up, red paper towel away. His reprieve did not last long, however, because you immediately went back at it with a fresh towel.

He tried to focus on the pain. It wouldn't have been so difficult in any other situation, but this was _ you, _ and it was very, very hard to keep himself from drowning in the scent of your skin filling the small, tiled room, and even harder- _ heh, hard, get it?- _ to keep himself from puttimg his hands on your waist and dragging you up against him, running his mouth up and down your neck and slipping his hands under your shirt, palms flat against your warm, supple skin as he pushed your pants off, pressed his hips up against yours, make you feel real fucking nice, fuck out all the pain in his head until there was nothing left but _ you. _

… it really should _ not _be possible for him to be this sad and horny at the same time, especially right after his little brother had just beaten the ever loving shit out of him. But Sans had always been a little bit of an abomination. A freak who was into sick things and who only knew how to express himself through sex or rage or apathy.

He dug his nails into his thighs as you leaned in closer, crowding up his field of vision and making it exceedingly difficult to look anywhere but your face. 

He squeezed his eyes shut instead, a wave of bitter pain washing over him, followed by little aftershocks of melancholy he didn't have the words to describe.

"Does it hurt?"

"no," he said, which was a stupid lie, because obviously it did.

"Liar," you replied. Which was fair. 

"it's _ fine." _

"Fine my _ ass," _ you scoffed, probably rolling your eyes. _ " _Your face looks like a picasso painting."

"and why the fuck do you care?" He shot back, because running his mouth was something he was good at. Something easy, safe, familiar.

"What, that your face is messed up?"

"i mean why're you bein’' so nice to me? saying we're datin', tryna help me."

"Because I- I was in the heat of the moment and didn't want your brother to kill you in the middle of my shop.”

"how christian of you." A drop of blood rolled off the tip of his nose and landed on the back of his hand. He wiped it on his jacket, sniffing. "thought you hated me or somethin'."

"I never said that."

"d_ on't care enough to hate me, _sorry."

"Just because I might not like you doesn't mean I want you to fucking _die," _you muttered, grabbing a dry paper towel and sponging off his brow. "I'm not that bad of a person."

"yeah?"

"Yeah," you affirmed. 

"what about me?"

"What about you?"

"d'you think i'm a _ bad person?" _He asked, vaguely wry. It didn't come out right, however, sounding less like a taunt and more like a genuine question. Which it was not, because Sans already knew the answer.

“You’re a dickhead," you replied, not necessarily harshly. While Sans did not disagree with your assessment, he noted that you hadn’t said _ yes. _

“yeah.”  
There was a silence. His feet dangled an inch off the floor, heels bumping into your legs. His face felt hot, although that was probably due to the copious amount of blood and the warm towels you’d wiped it off with. Or perhaps it was a consequence of your proximity and the reality that if he just shifted forwards and canted his hips just right-

“That was your brother out there?” you asked, dragging him out of his concussion fueled delirium. 

“yeah,” Sans said yet again, struggling to focus his vision.  
“He’s fucking crazy."

"you don't know what you're fuckin' talkin' about," Sans immediately replied in a burst of lucidity, sounding significantly more defensive then he'd have liked to sound. You seemed slightly taken aback, pausing for a moment before continuing to scrub at his bones.

"He beat the shit out of you."

"s'fine."

"Your face disagrees," you mumbled, almost like a joke. He couldn't be sure.

"he's my brother."

"He almost _ killed _you."

"he's my _ brother." _

You did not respond. Instead you reached over him, unzipping the first aid kit and flipping through the bandages in search of something. His head had gone fuzzy again, his temper evaporating back into a quiet kind of sadness as he watched you look for whatever it was you were looking for. Maybe alcohol wipes. That's what he used on Frisk when she got cuts or broke skin. Not that Frisk needed his help bandaging herself up anymore. 

… he was so caught up thinking about Frisk he hadn't realized his gaze had wandered until his attention was yet again on you, his dark eyelights following the curve of your spine, devouring the dip of your waist and the swell of your breasts- _ fuck him, _ you were _ so fucking pretty- _ as you thoughtlessly pulled your hair out of your eyes and over your shoulder, exposing your neck to him. 

You’d done a pretty good job of hiding the mark he’d left on you. Your sweater covered most of it, and his scent on you was fairly muted. You smelled sterile, like medicine and hospital sheets. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much. He should’ve counted himself lucky the situation had panned out that way it had, that he’d been around when Papyrus met you to confuse the scent.

But some deep, primal part of himself he didn't want to admit existed _ wanted _ his brother- wanted everyone- to see him on you. His hands, leaving fingerprint bruises up and down your skin, his teeth marks etched into your neck and thighs, like a collar. Wanted everybody to know you were taken. Wanted to own you.

Which was bad, because wanting to own somebody was bad- slavery had kind of been a big issues with the humans- but also because he’d never wanted to _ own _ somebody before. Never wanted anybody like he wanted you. Something in his bones ached to hold you in his arms and lock you away forever, tie you to his bed so you couldn't run, fuck you so good your brain was too mushy to _ want _to run. Keep you there forever and rip out the throat of anybody who went looking for you. 

Something was definitely wrong with him. Many things, actually. He should've been thinki mg about how nice you were, how sweet and _ good _ you were to take care of him when he'd been nothing but a dick to you, but instead he was thinking about how it'd really be so easy to just pick you up and pin you against the counter and push into you nice and good and _ deep. _Hold you down and make you feel real nice, make you cry all pretty because he really was scary sometimes. 

You were back in between his legs again and it'd only been a moment but Jesus Christ he'd forgotten how _ soft _you were.

So soft. 

_ Soft and sweaty and a little bit sticky from his mouth. Just muscle and fat and warmth under your delicate skin, pliable under his unforgiving fingertips. Absolutely defenseless, sprawled out on his bed, half naked and so drunk you were barely lucid, strung out on his touch. _

_ His head was on your lap as his thumb rubbed idle circles over the bruised splotch of color he'd left on the inside of your thigh. _

_ Humans were so fragile. So temporary. Burned bright for a fraction of a second before they were stifled out. S’why their SOULS were so powerful. Shorter shelf life meant more potency. And you were real fuckin’ potent, weren’t you? All that booze and filthy words and quiet kind of determination stuffed into a tiny little human sized package. And you really were so tiny. Maybe not by human standards, but compared to him, you were practically child sized. He could probably split you in half if he wanted. _

_ But that was the problem, wasn't it? He didn’t want to. You couldn't fight back and that felt unfair. And while Sans had never really cared about things being fair before, something about this was different. _

_ He didn't _ want _ to hurt you. _

_ Just wanted to- _

_ -to stay and listen to you breathe until you fell asleep. Wanted to stay here forever and not think, forget about everything- about SOULS and RESETS and responsibility and guilt and blame and lies and sin and stay suspended in this moment, laying on your lap as you flickered in and out of sleep, content and warm and thinking of nothing. _

_ But this wasn't about what he wanted. _

_ What he wanted didn't matter anymore. _

You brought a wipe to his eye and he jolted, a bolt of pain running straight through him to his toes. He let out a strangled hiss, jerking away instinctively.

"Don't be a pussy," you mumbled, although there was very little conviction behind it.

“jus- just give a guy some warnin’ next time, yeah, kid?” he replied through gritted teeth, squeezing his left eye shut. 

“Sure. This is going to sting.”

“wait-” he started, ducking away from your hand as you went back in with the bloodied towel. You huffed and grabbed his shoulder roughly, holding him in place.

“Stay _ still _.”

“easy fer you,” he huffed under his breath, scowling down at your hips. "you ain’t the one gettin’-"

"What, getting taken care of? I'm being _ nice." _

“i didn’t ask fer- _ ow- _your help.”

“And I didn’t ask for you to be a creep and yet here we are. Look, do you want me to do this or not?"

"I didn't know I was allowed to opt out."

“You aren’t. It’s going to get infected. Now shut the fuck up and let me help you.”

“it’s not gonna-”

You cut him off by pressing the alcohol pad against his brow and he sputtered on his words, flinching.

“What part of shut the fuck up do you not understand?” you asked, sounding mildly exasperated with him. “I know what I’m doing.”

“...you treat a lot of skeleton monsters, then?” he finally gritted back, matching your mocking tone.

“When something gets a wound you clean it out so bacteria doesn’t cause an infection,” you justified knowingly. “Not just for humans. Cats. Dogs. Monsters too, probably. All animals.”  
If you realized you’d just called his race _animal _you didn’t show it. Sans might’ve brought it up but that could’ve lead to you not touching him anymore and he wasn’t going to risk it.

“s’not how that works.”

“Cool. I don’t care.”

_ This bitch. _“‘s no way to talk to yer boyfriend," he goaded, and was pleased to see that his words had made your face turn an awful, entirely satisfying shade of red.

“We’re- we aren’t- you're not my_ boyfriend,” _ you sputtered, leaning back a little but not quite removing yourself from in between his legs. “I only _ said _ that because I needed to- to just resolve the situation and it was just easier then trying to explain things and also I’m really fucking tired because I was at the hospital and this asshole doctor made me talk about the mark- _ what the fuck _is on my neck, anyways?” you suddenly burst, the switch so hasty it seemed like you’d been possessed. “Like, I know this isn’t a normal hickey. It’s not going away and it’s bright red, and I need you to tell me what it is, like, right the fuck now.”

“calm down, girly, take a breath. s'not even a big deal. really jus' means that yer… like, taken."

"The hell does that mean?"

"means that you trust me. or trusted. whatever. it means that we're just… attached." Which was true. Perhaps in more simple terms than warranted, but he wasn't lying. Partial truths always went better than wanton lies, he’d learned. He knew because he lied constantly.

Like, _ constantly. _

"Attached."

He 

"yeah. like… when a monster decides to, ah, when a monster puts some of their magic in somebody else. jus' a little. nothing that'll hurt, jus' something that'll… y'know. tell all the other monsters you're, uh, involved with somebody."

"..so like, you _ marked _me? Like a dog? Like how dogs piss on their territory so that other dogs know not to try and take it? Is that what this-" you pointed to your neck, words falling over each other gracelessly, "-is?"

Sans backpedaled as fast as possible. "jesus, no. s'not like _ pissing. _jesus christ, i'm not a fuckin' dog. s'just…” He struggled to find the right words to use as to not upset you any further. Unfortunately, you were not a patient person, and did not seem like you’d give him enough time to come up with a coherent explanation before you fell into another fit. “... when… it's like- like-” 

Sans let out a small growl of frustration and squeezed his eyes shut, laboring to find the words. He’d never been very good at expressing himself intelligently. He could charm his way into somebody’s pants with general ease or captivate a small audience with dumbass jokes just fine but explaining- or lying about- monster intimacy to you wasn’t something he’d prepared for.

“it’s- shit, it's just like if you wanna go _ far _ with somebody, like, _ far _, you gotta put a little of you in 'em so you can- like, do that."

"Do… what, like sex?"

"no. like… _ more. _i guess. fuck. it's complicated. i dunno the science behind it all. just that if you wanna see somebody's everything you gotta let their body get used to your magic."

"So magic foreplay."

"wh- i mean, sure? or no- shit, kid, i don't fuckin' know.” Another lie, but if he told you the truth you might kill him. Or yourself. “i ain't a doctor. what-"

"How do I get it to go away?"

"... you, uh. don't. it'll go away eventually."

"What do you mean by eventually?"

Should he tell the truth? No. There was no need. "couple weeks?"

"_ Weeks?" _Panic was beginning to overcome your voice.

"calm down. you'll be _ fine. _"

"Will I? Because I've been having headaches and throwing up ever since we- you know. Like one long hangover. Like, I feel like shit _ constantly _ and the only thing that makes it better is that _ stupid fucking jacket _and I have no fucking clue why and I don't know what's even happening to me, Sans. Except that it's all your fucking fault."

Sans, for once, did not match your anger levels, keeping his voice even. "i been tryin' for a week ta talk to you 'bout this 'n you kept running away or telling me to fuck off. or both," he added dryly. 

Your face went darker, if that was possible. "That's- That's not- 's not fair," you stammered, indignation oozing from each syllable. 

"yeah?"

"I gave you _ plenty _chances to explain, but you just- you barely mentioned it once."

"'s not even a little bit true. i tried to talk to you at the bar and you ran off. i tried to talk to you in the grocery store 'n you ran off. tried to talk to you here and you- you didn't wanna talk."

"Because I didn't realize this wasn't just a hickey. Because you didn't want to tell me."

"because you didn't want to fuckin' listen."

"Because you make me feel-!"

But then you cut yourself off, looking down and letting out a shuddering breath. He followed you gaze downwards to where you’d unconciously placed a hand on his leg. When you realized what you were doing you jerked your hand back like it’d been scalded, taking a few steps back out from between his thighs and swallowing thickly.

Neither of you said a word for a full ten seconds. 

"...make you feel what?"

You did not respond. Instead you turned around, wadding up the bloodied wipes and tossing them out before washing your hands off. The water turned pink as it ran off your fingers, swirling in the drain before going clear again. 

"... do you want advil?" you said quietly after a long moment, squirting some vanilla scented soap into your palm.

"'m fine."

More silence.

This was worse than the yelling, somehow. He couldn't tell what you were thinking. Which was bad, because Sans had always been good at reading people. Also his head fucking hurt and you were no longer touching him and that sucked and he'd quite abruptly been struck by the sudden urge to pull you into his lap. But he doubted you’d appreciate that, so he refrained.

You turned around, and he’d never seen you _ not _look tired, but right now you looked uncomfortably close to kicking the bucket. When you spoke, defeat echoed in each syllable.

"Look, Sans,” you started wearily, rubbing at your eyes. “I'm not trying to be a bitch but I can't- I don't want to know you. Okay?”

… and that really should not have hurt as much as it did. He’d pin it on his fucked up face, if anyone asked. He tried not to let it show. “why, you got a boyfriend or somethin’?”

“Wha- that’s not the point. Also, none of your business.”

“girlfriend?”

“... no. Let me finish.”

“anybody yer tryin’ ta fuck?”  
“Oh my god. You’re literally- no, I just don’t want-”

“me?” he supplied.

You did not respond, which was enough of a reply by itself.

Sans nodded once, slowly, a numb, empty kind of understanding passing over him. “huh.”

“...and I just need things to go back to normal. And it kind of seems like you’ve got a lot of stuff you need to sort out with the- the kid and your brother. I just don’t want to be friends, really. So this just- I don’t want to see you here anymore. Or anywhere.”

“Huh,” he repeated. You did not seem satisfied with his answer.

“... so that’s a yes, then, right? You’re gonna leave me alone?”  
“we’ll see.”

“The fuck does that mean, _ we’ll see?” _you exploded, which was exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. Getting under your skin was extremely rewarding.

“i mean probably not. small city, after all.”

“Stop _ looking for me. _ Stop talking to me. Just- just give me my phone back and we’ll call it even and we can pretend _ this,” _you gestured between him and yourself, “Never happened. Yeah?”

“i don’t have your phone on me.” He was getting it copied onto a harddrive as they spoke, but you didn’t need to know that. “i can drop it off at your house in a few days. where did you say you lived, again?”  
“I _didn’t,_” you replied nastily, crossing your arms over your chest. “You can have it sent here.”

“you seem like an apartment kind of gal. you’re workin’ here so you obviously ain’t got the bank to live anywhere fancy. west or east?”

“I want the jacket,” you said so suddenly he was taken aback for a few moments as he processed what you’d just said. 

“... the jacket.”

“Yes,” you agreed, not meeting his eyes. “I want it. I’ll buy it off you.”

Sans made a face. He’d noticed you liked his jacket- a little too much to be normal, perhaps- but he hadn’t realized it meant so much to you. Unfortunately, it meant something to him, too. ““much as i like to see you in my clothes, i can’t. sorry, girly, but it ain’t for sale.”  
“You don’t _understand,” _you insisted, desperation creeping into your voice despite your best efforts. “I- I just really fucking need that jacket.”

“_need it?”__  
_ “Y_es._ How much? It’s old, right, and you just got blood all over it, so like… twenty?”

“Thousand.”

You leveled a glare at him. “I’m_ serious.” _

“so am i. It’s been in the family for generations.” Another lie. They came effortlessly now. Which was probably some sort of bad sign but Sans chose to ignore it.

“Exactly. It’s old and gross. No value. And I want it.”  
Sans sighed. Wiped at his brow with his fingers, drawing back a little bit of blood. You handed him another paper towel. “fine,” he relented, dabbing it off and cursing softly at the pain. “I’ll hand it over for fifteen hundred.”

“That’s insane.”

“or a good bj.”

“_ Sans-” _

“or if you pretend to be my girlfriend for a month.”

That shut you up pretty fast. You blinked twice, looking vaguely dazed. “...what?”

“What about what I just said confused you?”  
“Did we not _just _establish that I don’t want to associate with you? Ever?”  
“we all make sacrifices. my kid- my brother- they ain’t stupid. now they know ‘bout you they’re gonna be askin’ questions an’ you know they don’t believe a fuckin’ word that comes out of my mouth. also, they like to involve themselves in my business and if they come ‘round here and you’re actin’ like you don’t know me no more they’re gonna make me pay for you lyin’.”

“You want me to pretend to date you for a month.”

“jus’ ‘round them. as in i take you out for lunch a few times ‘n you pretend like you don’t hate me and then when this is all cooled down and that sucker ain't on your neck anymore we _break up_ and you never hear from me again. you don’t gotta tell nobody else ‘bout it.”  
You actually laughed at that. “We aren’t in a fucking rom com. This isn’t happening.”  
“do you want the jacket or not?”  
“I-”

"YOU TWO BETTER NOT BE HAVING INTERCOURSE IN THERE. THAT'S DISGUSTING."

You jerked at the sound of Papyrus at the door, swearing softly as you caught yourself against the wall. Papyrus’ voice made Sans’ black eye throb and he felt his mood darken, falling faster than he thought possible.

"we're just leaving."

Sans stood up on shaky feet and sniffed, crumpling up his soiled towel and tossing it into the trash bin. He straightened his coat, tugged his sleeves down his arm, gave you a small nod, and started for the door. You stepped in front of him, shame gone in the face of desperation.

"I'll give you thirty bucks right now for the jacket."

"i don't want your money, kiddo."

"Fourty." God, you were cute.

"again, don't want it."

"What _ do _ you want?"

"SANS, WE'RE GOING NOW. KATHERINE SAYS WE CAN'T BE HERE ANYMORE BECAUSE WE'RE SCARING AWAY CUSTOMERS. HURRY UP.”

“You aren’t actually going _home _with him, are you?” you asked. Sans shook his head, shrugging somberly.  
“i ain’t really in the place to be shortcutting right now, so yeah. might as well.” He tried to step past you. You refused to let him.

“So that’s it, then?” You sounded almost angry. He had no fucking clue as to why. “He beats you half to death and you just act like nothing happened?”

“family is family.”

“Fifty dollars,” you pleaded. You looked good begging for things. He’d file the image away for later use. “Fifty dollars for the jacket.”  
Sans said nothing this time, giving you something almost like a smile. 

“...bye, kid.”

You seemed to realize he wasn’t going to give in and with one final glower, you let out a breath and stepped away from the door, resigned. 

“thanks for the, uh. help.”

You nodded.

“and, uh. think about my offer, huh?”

And before you could protest his assertion he closed the door, leaving you alone in the bathroom with a dozen bloody paper towels and the lingering warmth of his bones on your skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see a drawing of Kitty irl go to my Tumblr  
https://puffers-mcmuffers.tumblr.com/
> 
> It's march. I emerge from my cave after a three-month hiatus. I smell like chai tea and i have lost my retainers. I drop this 20 page chapter at your feet and scurry back into my hovel, murmuring some soft excuse about why I took so long.
> 
> I rewrote this chapter FIVE FUCKING TIMES. Not just like editing it. Like I deleted the whole chapter and wrote it from scratch five times. I'm happy with how it turned out. Sans got beat up and him and Reader ended up in a bathroom alone together, so who's complaining?  
Also Sans is heartsick and has unhealthy relationships with every person in his life and he really, really wants to fuck the Reader. Like, really bad. And Reader definitely has daddy issues. Does her old man remind her of anyone, I wonder?
> 
> As always, our next chapter will be filled with Angst, booze, and Sexual Frustration. Give me some prompts for more uncomfortable situations to put these bastards in and I'll probably use them bc im out of ideas. Also what do you think of Sans calling Reader 'kid'? like is it werid? Do i even care? idfk im so fucking tired 
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and for leaving Kudos and comments! It genuinely means so much to me. I'll see you soon, dumbasses.  
A bientot!


	10. Porn and Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you're horny, Sans contemplates suicide, Kitty is missing, and Papyrus makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda nsfw

_01:12 AM _

You were sprawled out over your bed, staring up blankly at the ceiling as your fingers absently curled and uncurled around the neck of a half empty bottle of pomegranate flavoured vodka. You were wearing a double XL tee shirt and very little else, legs flung off the side of your mattress. Your cat stumbled over to your side gracelessly, partly because he was half blind and partly because his legs were too short to carry his weight evenly. He headbutted your hand, milky eyes fluttering shut. You didn't react.

Desperate for your attention, he waddled onto your stomach, meowing incessantly.

You continued to stare up at the ceiling, unseeing, trying not to think. Drinking was supposed to make things easier, make the memories go fuzzy. And it had worked, in a way. Except now everything was fuzzy, like you were far, far away, not in control of your own body. Like you were watching yourself through a screen.

Your fingers touched at the center of your chest, absently attempting to play with the zipper there, only to find nothing but smooth cotton. You let your palms fall flat against your stomach, a knot of discomfort settling behind your ribs. 

Sometimes you forgot you didn't have the jacket anymore. You'd had it for less than a month but worn it so often it felt wrong not to have it on anymore. The weight had become comforting and now that it was gone you felt something like phantom pains around your arms and torso. Just more memories of things you didn’t have anymore. 

_ his hands, not cold, exactly, but cool in contrast to your feverish skin. hot, so hot. you whined, tugging at your shirt and slurring out something life “off”, and he laughed, low and rumbling. tried to help you take the jacket off but you held it fast against you, face beet red. _

_ “dontcha want it off?” _

_ “...not the jacket,” you mummbled back, almost shyly- shyly, even though you were obviously fucking shameless- and his eyes went dark, his smile falling as he swallowed, letting out a hoarse little “fuck” and kissing you again, hard, sliding his fingers under your shirt and over your ribs, up, and you shivered, keening- _

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut and trying not to think about that particular moment of your life. The events of that night had been slowly coming back to you, but nothing important. Nothing that made sense. They didn’t come back in a linear way, either. It was just little fragments of moments, blurry polaroids of the past. Vague shapes, distorted music and red, red, red. 

“Fuck,” you whispered to no one, eyes going in and out of focus.

You needed to sleep. Usually alchohol helped with that, but it was already past midnight and although you were physically exhausted, your brain would not shut the fuck up. As usual. Which sucked, because you had to be at work at 6:35 tomorrow, with an appointment with Dr. O'Brian following immediately after your shift ended.

You weren’t sure how you felt about that. Not bad, which was a shock, because usually you got real sweaty and anxious when you had to go to the hospital or any event that required human interaction outside of work. But O’Brian wasn’t particularly scary. Maybe because he was, like, 15 years old and had exactly none of his shit together, or maybe because you'd met him while you were drugged out and hadn't been able to perceive any bad vibes from him. You were certain you wouldn't like him by tomorrow, but for now the thought of meeting up with him wasn't physically repelling. 

It was kind of a nice change.

Catsby whined and nipped at your hands. You swatted him away lightly. 

"Fuck off," you mumbled, barely coherent. As usual, he refused to submit to your wishes, meowing insistently.

"'M havin'... alone time," you replied, struggling to remember how to turn sound into words. "Alone."

He leapt onto your chest, so light you barely felt his dainty paws at all. He tilted his head at you, concern lacing his small, unintelligent face. Or you know, maybe you were just fucking delusional and your cat _ didn't _possess human sympathy.

"No, I'm fine."

It was sweet that he was concerned. It was nice to have somebody care, even if that somebody was an ungrateful brat. 

“No, I’m not thinkin’ ‘bout… uh, him. Sans. m’not.”

But that was a lie and Catsby knew. You could tell. Because you were thinking about him. Which was stupid and made no sense, and he was probably sleeping right now, anyways. Because it was late, very late, and even if he was still awake you doubted it was for the same reasons you were, because you were horny and lonely and sad and generally pathetic. And drunk out of your goddamn mind. Because even if you didn’t think very highly of the man- or skeleton- you’d reached genuinely pitiful levels of misery and there was absolutely no way he could be feeling as shitty as you did.

  
  
  


_ 01:38 AM _

Sans had propped himself up against his headboard, a bottle and a half deep into delirium as he listened to the faint buzz of his brother vacuuming two rooms away. His sheets and blankets were balled up at the foot of his bed and his clothes were strewn about the floor, because he was a lazy slob and was always out at Grillby's or with Frisk or doing whatever the fuck else he did when he was avoiding being at home and cleaning up his life. He'd placed his jacket besides him on the mattress, and if he squinted his eyes it almost seemed like someone was laying next to him, which wasn’t the point of any of this, but it was a funny illusion, he thought, so he kept it there. 

The lights were off in his room, the only light coming from under his door and his phone, where some shitty porno was playing.

He took another swig of his drink, watching the girl on the screen writhe with a bleak, hazy sort of detachment. The man had just slapped her across the face and now she was crying, not very convincingly, as the man rammed into her. Sans wasn't going to say that he was into it, because he wasn't, except that he might've been. What he meant is that he hadn't gone _ looking _for borderline rapey, violent porn, but it had been suggested by the site for him and that spoke for itself, didn't it?

There was probably a special name for people who got off to this shit. _ Sex offenders, _he thought, and almost laughed, because that was funny, wasn't it? Maybe not. He was, as previously established, drunk as fuck. 

But there was a difference, he reminded himself, between watching kinky porn and actually _ doing _ the act. And by _ the act _he of course meant stuffing himself inside somebody who didn’t want him. Or who weren’t lucid enough to want him. Thinking about doing it and actually comitting the deed was different.

Is that what pedophiles told themselves?. 

Fuck.

Sans watched a fucking ton of porn. It was probably disgusting, actually. But there hadn’t been any for him in the underground- human porn, that is- aside from that one magazine that he’d bought from one of those back alley vendors with human women in very little clothes, so now that he had full access to it he’d gone maybe a little bit overboard. It was gross and he hated himself for it but it was convenient and he was lazy.

The woman on the screen looked a little bit like you. In fact, most of the women in his recent internet history resembled you in some way. Same hairstyle or eye color or body shape or whatever else. Again, he hadn't gone looking for girls that looked like you specifically, but apparently the websites knew his preferences. Which was to say, they knew his preference had become _ you. _

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you. Especially not when he was like _ this, _ miserable and thoroughly disconsolate, watching shitty porn alone in his room at two in the morning. No, he wasn’t supposed to think of you at all. ‘Cause you were a means to an end and Sans might not have been all that smart, but even he knew that thinking about people who were _ means to an end _in the way he thought about you was not helpful for anyone. He just needed to finish his- business with you and do his best not to think about the smooth planes of soft, squishy skin and the way your dimples creased your cheeks when you were smiling all sleepy at him, or the way you were constantly tired and stubborn to the point it was ridiculous, and how much he just wanted you to be with him right now and he could pull you into his arms and bury his face in your neck, breath in the smell of you and close his eyes and just die there, maybe.

Oh god, he was wasted.

It was probably for the best he didn’t have your number, otherwise he would’ve drunk dialed at least, like, fourteen times. Not even asking for sex or anything. Just, like, trying to get you to pick up. It really was for the best. Besides, you almost certainly wouldn’t pick up. Unless he called fifteen times, maybe, because then you might pick up out of pity and that would be pretty great, he thought, to hear your voice and see you and everything, His thoughts weren’t making sense anymore- they rarely did- all jumbled and blurry and tripping over each other like a a group of teenagers stumbling home after prom, holding their high heels and flat and laughing, all giddy for no fucking reason and ready for a morning of vomit and shitty headaches. That metaphor didn’t make sense but that was okay, because- because of something. 

The pornstar was naked, now, but, like, _ fully _naked, and he could not bring himself to care, because she didn’t look like you anymore. He'd know because he'd seen you three-fourths naked and committed the image to memory.

_ Sprawled out across his bed, wearing very, very, very little, makeup smeared, and face flushed feverishly. Eyes lined with black, pupils blown wide wide wide under heavy lids, glazed over with confusion in the afterglow of what he'd done to you. Hair fanned out around your head, wild and god you were so fucking pretty he knew you'd just ruined sex for him because nobody else was going to do it for him anymore. _

_ He'd take a picture but that'd be evidence and he couldn't risk it. _

  
  


He wiped at his mouth with his bare forearm, sniffing once as soft moans purred out through his phone speaker. His bottle had become empty. Where all the liquor had gone, he couldn’t say. His sockets had begun to ache, prickling with this terrible kind of misery he didn't want to understand. 

He didn't have skin but if he did, he'd want to crawl out of it and drag himself straight into hell or wherever people went to forget themselves. Pain he could deal with. This was something else and he wasn't sure he could live like this much longer. He just constantly felt like shit and it was really funny, actually, because he didn’t even care if he felt like shit anymore. It was just, like, a _ thing _that he couldn’t change, and that was funny, although he didn’t know why. Or if it was funny at all, actually. He hadn’t been this drunk in weeks. Last time he’d even been close had been that night with you at the bar, and he hadn’t even been, like, that drunk, probably. 

_ "what're you doin'?" you slurred, eyes struggling to focus as he shifted himself onto you, thighs on either side of your hips. _

_ "...jus' relax, kid," he whispered, gently pushing your shoulders back down as you tried to sit up. This thick lump of dread had climbed into his throat, making it increasingly difficult to force out words, and he really was drunk, and so were you, and things were just all so blurry and he didn’t want any of this anymore but there really was no choice, was there? _

_ "'s okay. it'll be over soon." _

The girl on the screen was about to cum. Or fake it. Probably fake it. It was fucking disgusting and he _ hated _watching it, hated her sqeaky moans and sobs and the big man fucking her and the fact that he wasn’t hard even after watching an hour of porn and he should’ve just turned it off but he kept watching anyways until the man finished with a gratuitous grunt and the video ended.

Sans stared at the dark screen for a long, long moment, watching his blurry, darkened reflection gaze back at him hollowly.

  
  


He pressed the replay button.

  
  
  
  


_ 02:27 AM_

You weren't sure if you were horny or just touch starved and craving human contact. Maybe a little bit of both. All of the above. Or something. 

It was weird. You couldn't stand being touched yet your lack of physical connection with others was truly debilitating. Maybe it was because your family had never been touchy when you were growing up. And by family you meant your dad, because he _ was _your family. Or had been, at least.

Dying fucking sucked. 

Probably. You couldn't speak from experience. Actually, dying seemed kind of nice. Like sleep, but better, because you wouldn't have to wake up. Death wasn't that bad if you were the one moving on. Being left being was the sucky part. 

You hope god had taken pity on your old man and let him into heaven. Although if he'd been sent to hell you'd be able to see him when you bit the dust. Was wanting your dead father to be in hell just so you could spend time with him selfish? Probably, but you were a selfish person. Also you were too fucking drunk to care about things like selfishness. And again, horny.

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to quell the heat creeping up your skin. This happened sometimes when you were drunk out of your mind. You were reduced to your base instincts, your mind shutting off as your body took over to fulfill whatever need you'd been neglecting before you regained the sense to stop it. Sometimes it was hunger, sometimes sleep. This time it seemed your lack of a sex life had become an issue to your body. _ You weren't getting any younger, _ it said. Or it would've said, if your body was a separate entity from you that could talk. Jesus _ christ _you were drunk and also maybe a little bit dying to get somebody- or something- inside of you. 

You might've tried to, uh, _ relieve _ yourself if Catsby hadn't been in the room, but you were too tired to chase him out of the room. You knew some people didn't care about having their pets around when they were getting hot and heavy, but that was fucking werid. Also, you weren't sure you were even capable of standing at the moment, so kicking him out was out of the question.

You felt warm and dizzy and kind of melancholic in a way that felt really shitty in a cathartic sort of way. You'd been listening to _ Artic Monkeys _on loop for three hours, so that might've had something to do with it, but how would you know? Your dad had loved that band and you guessed that you'd inherited some of his music tastes. Sans would probably like this kind of music, you thought, which was bad, because you weren't supposed to be thinking about Sans right now. Because you were horny and sad and very, very drunk, and it wasn't a good time to be thinking about people like Sans, who might’ve raped you, if you were thinking really hard about it. 

Was it rape to have sex with somebody who was deleriously drunk? If so, had Sans raped you that night? It didn't feel like he had and you didn’t feel violated, like, at all, but you would've never had sex with him if you were sober, so maybe. He'd definitely tried to get you drunk. And he'd been drinking along, too, but you were pretty sure you'd been more drunk then he had. It was all fuzzy. Who knew what happened? You could barely remember the sex at all. Actually, you _ couldn't _remember any of the sex. It was entirely possible it hadn't happened in the first place. All you remembered was the feeling. Bliss. Red red red and teeth at your neck and that was really all.

Well. Not all. 

_ “I’m getting, like, crazy deja vu right now,” you said- or slurred, more accurately, a dopey smile on your face as you let your head fall to his matress, one arm clutching at his coat absently and the other in your hair. _

_ He shucked his shoes off. “what’s that?” _

_ “‘s like- s’like when you’re just doin’, like, whatever, an’ then you feel like you’ve done it before. like this exact moment.” _

_ “... sometimes.” _

_ And then he was quiet for a little bit and your smile faltered, because it seemed to you like you’d just said something wrong. _

_ He spoke before you could apologize. _

_ “not now, though.” _

_ “You’re telling me you’ve never gotten a girl in your room before?” _

_ “never gotten _ you _ in here.” _

_ “But how can you really be sure? I don’t remember half the people I meet. What if-” you hiccuped. “What if we just forgotten?” _

_ “We just forgotten?’ _

_ “Forgot. Don’t be a dick, you know what I mean.” _

_ He let out a small huff of laughter. Sobered up slightly. _

_ “... trust me. I’d remember.” _

  
  
  
  
  


_ 02:41 _

His phone had died a while ago and Sans had not had the strength to get up and charge it, so he was now laying on the bed with his two empty bottles, fading in and out of an ethanol coma. 

People had died of alcohol poisoning from a fraction of what he'd downed in the past few hours. Sans, however, had built up his tolerance over years and years of substance abuse and knew his limits.

He was pushing them right now, but who the fuck cared? Even if he died, he'd eventually wake up again in the underground. Even if he didn't, he'd eventually wake back up in the underground. Nothing he did mattered because they always ended up in the same place, and who even gave a shit about anything that happened in between loops anymore? It was just a matter of time, of how long it took for the kid to snap. Might as well bite the bullet and get it over with.

It wouldn't be the first time Sans had sped things up like that. It probably wouldn't be the last, either. 

If his plan didn't work, that is. 

Although this had been one of the longest runs they'd had in a long time. Frisk had managed to keep it together for an impressive amount of time. But the poor brat was only human. She could only do so much.

No. If he died now, all this work- everything he'd done, all the fucked up shit he'd been forced to do to get to this point- would be for nothing. He'd have to start over. 

Without you.

Usually when things RESET events repeated. People said what they always said. Did what they always did. Sans wasn't sure how many times he'd heard the same fucking conversations at Grillby's. The timelines had blurred and the only thing that ever really changed was the kid. He remembered RESETS by the way Frisk had interacted with him in them. She was the only thing that had kept him sane over the years. Then again, she was also _ why _ the repeats kept happening. If she was dead- _ really _ dead- maybe they could move on. But he couldn't live without her, so obviously that wasn't going to fucking happen. 

Anyways.

Things didn't change much when they repeated. Except for this time, because this time, _ you'd _showed up.

It was strange to think that you'd gone through the same resets as he had. That the last three-ish years had been on loop for you, too, except unlike Sans, you didn't know the repeats were happening. To your knowledge, all your actions had permanent consequences. But you acted like they didn't, speeding around monster territory on your bike and drinking your weight in booze like it was the end of the goddamn world. Honestly, it was a miracle you'd managed to last as long as you had with the way you lived. 

He wondered what you were doing right now. Sleeping, probably. It was late on a weekday and any decent person would be deep into their dreams by now. Unless you had somebody over. You'd mostly confirmed you weren't involved with anybody, but you were also real pretty to look at and he was sure that you had some people sniffing after you. And Sans knew first hand how nice it was to have sex.

Sex was one of the few forms of acceptable personal connection this world allowed men like him. Just a poor facsimile of intimacy.

You might be getting fucked right now. In a genuinely surprising turn of events, the thought did not illicit a reaction from him. Usually he'd throw a fit, getting all pissy 'cause nobody had the right to be touching you except him, or maybe he'd even get a little hot under the collar, thinking about you gettin' railed, but he was unsettlingly unaffected by it all. The liquor had rendered him too melancholic to be mad and he was too despondent to be horny. Hell, he'd watched an hour of porn without getting hard. He'd wanted to, that was for sure. It'd distract him for a little. Jacking off was a little bit pathetic for someone his age, sure, but it was sure as hell less sad than laying in bed, wasted, and thinking about the impunity of suicide.

Was it really killing himself if he came back? Not really. Because it wasn't _ death _if he came back. And he always came back. Everyone always came back. Except for people who died before things started looping. They were lucky that way. 

He wondered what happened to those people. If they went to heaven or hell or somewhere else entirely. Sans was far from a religious guy, but he believed in god. Or some sort of higher power who let things happen. Maybe the universe. Maybe something else entirely, something intangible. Whatever. He just meant that there was somebody up there pulling at the strings and it sure as fuck wasn't him and not even the kid, either, because she was just a kid- just a fucking little _ kid _who didn’t understand how she’d ruined his entire fucking life.

He hoped there wasn't an afterlife.

Not only because he'd undoubtedly wind up in hell, but because he didn't particularly want to go to heaven, either. He didn't want to go anywhere. Didn't want to have to do anything. He just wanted it to fucking _ stop. _

Nothingness. No more existing. No more thinking or feeling. Just empty space in the place he used to occupy. 

The thought might've scared some people, but Sans found it profoundly comforting. A peaceful existence. Or non-existence, really. Like a never ending, dreamless sleep. 

He turned onto his side and blindly patted at his nightstand, fingers curling around a lighter and a half crumpled pack of Marlboros. He tapped out a cigarette, lit it with a small hiss of his zippo, and watched the tip begin to smolder. Tossing his lighter carelessly onto the mattress, he placed the cigarette between his teeth, leaned his head back, closed his eyes and inhaled.

  
  
  
  
  


_ ….. _

  
  
  
  


_ "no more, kid." _

_ Frisk stopped short, thin, tiny fingers knotting together. _

_ "...what?" she asked, very softly. This was when she still talked. So long ago. When she still had things to say. _

_ Sans shook his head. It hurt, like someone had turned up the exposure on his memories and he'd caught a glimpse of something in the background people weren't supposed to see. Were they really memories if the events had been erased? If the moments had never really happened at all? Or was he just making it up? Things got muddy. Mangled from being yanked into the past over and over and over. Events ran over each other. It was getting harder and harder to remember what was what and whether his brother was alive and if the kid was his kid or _ _ h e r. _ _ If things he remembered had happened yet or if they were memories of somebody else. _

_ "you can't keep playin' god, kid. no more tryin' to- you can't put us through it again. can't go back to that fuckin' mountain, frisk. i-" _

_ Sans cut himself off, voice snapping cleanly in two. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a shuddering inhale. _

_ "no more- no more goin' back." _

_ His hands were trembling. He couldn't stop them. _

_ "Sans-" _

_ "or just… just end it. everything. i don't care. just don't- i can't do this again, kid. i can't." _

"_ Sans _."

_ "please. no more." _

  
  
  
  


"..._ I'm sorry." _

  
  
  


_ ………….. _

  
  
  
  


You showed up at work on time despite your hangover and the fact that you’d slept for less than two hours the night previously, mostly because you knew your job depended on it. You’d been late and hungover at work dozens of times and you had a sneaking suspicion the next time it happened would also be the last time it did. 

The bakery smelled like warm vanilla, butter, sugar, dough, and spices, which did nothing for your churning stomach. Kitty wasn’t in the front, so you staggered to the back room and slung on your apron. Except that she wasn’t there either. So you checked the kitchen, where Westley was baking away, hands covered in flour or powdered sugar as he worked away at a bowl of cream. 

You shrunk away immediately but he’d already seen you. 

His round face lit up. He said something in korean and set down the bowl, wiping his hands on his apron. “Good morning! How are you?” 

“Hi, Mr. Kim,” you said meekly, shoving your clammy hands into your pockets.

“You’re on time today!”

“Yeah.” You were just as shocked. “Um, how are you… doing?”

“Good!” He exclaimed cheerfully. Golden morning light poured in through the kitchen window and shined off the white tiles. “It is a beautiful day. I went on a walk this morning.”

You shifted uncomfortably. Something about friendly people always made you uneasy. “Yeah. It’s nice.” Or it would’ve been if you hadn’t had a massive fucking hangover. “Um, where’s Kitty?”  
“Oh, Kitty is not here yet,” he said, grabbing a piping bag and filling it with pale pink whipped cream. You watched him expertly swirl frosting onto a mint strawberry cupcake. 

“... what do you mean?” In your two years of working at the bakery Kitty had never shown up late, not even once. She’d never missed a day either, except for the one week last winter she called in sick because she had bronchitis. 

“I don’t know where she is. Maybe sleeping. She has had a long week,” he said knowingly as he topped the cupcakes with a spring of candied mint. 

“... huh.”

“But it is okay. She is always working. Never late. Not like you,” he said teasingly, and you wilted.

“Um. Sorry,” you said lamely, looking away from him. “Uh, I’ll go open up, then.”  
“Is it seven already?”

“Uh, a quarter till. Ish.”  
“I’ll be back here if you need help,” he said, smiling. You nodded and turned away, feeling mildly pathetic. 

You set up the cupcake display. Chocolate and orange first, then birthday cake, then red velvet, then green tea and carrot cake, followed by different varieties of muffins. You sighed when it was done, struggling not to throw up as you prepared the register and made three pots of coffee. You would’ve stolen a cup for yourself had you not already had, like, seven cups of fully caffeinated coffee this morning. Your heart was already beating out of your chest, weak and rapid, since your blood was now about 70% caffeine. It was weird getting ready for the workday without Kitty. Like, very weird. Quiet. 

Lonely, almost. 

At seven exactly you unlocked the doors, fixed your apron, and walked back to the counter. You weren’t sure how you were going to handle the day alone. You’d never had to work by yourself before. 

Except that you were no longer alone, because when you turned around a lean, towering skeleton with a jagged crack down one eye was peering down at you, his hands clasped behind his back.

"HELLO, HUMAN."

You stumbled backwards, letting out a strangled curse as Sans' brother stared at you, his teeth crooked into something that could've maybe been called a smile.

"Oh shit- uh, hi,” you stammered, catching yourself before you knocked over the steaming hot pot of decaf coffee. Westley was in the back, you reminded yourself. Westley was in the back and Westley could help you if you were attacked. Except that he couldn’t, because unlike your father, Westley didn’t carry a gun on him at work and you doubted anything else would do the trick against the skeleton. 

If the skeleton realized you were uncomfortable he didn’t say anything. “YES. GOOD MORNING.”

You swallowed and touched your neck, making sure your turtleneck sweater was rolled up all the way. “...Good morning,” you said after a long moment, trepidation still paralyzing you. Your head was spinning madly, painfully.

“HOW ARE YOU ON THIS FINE DAY?” he continued, that same strange grimace on his face. 

Was he… trying to be nice?

You uncurled your trembling fingers, finding it slightly easier to breathe now that you realized he wasn’t actively trying to murder you.

“I’m, uh…” you gave him a small once-over, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “Kind of tired, actually, but good, I guess.” Which was a lie. You weren’t even a little bit good and hadn’t been since fourth grade, but he didn’t need to know that.

There was a pause. The skeleton’s sneer (_ smile? grin? smirk?) _faltered slightly.

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO ASK HOW I’M DOING NOW.”

“Oh. Sorry. Um, you good?” 

The smile was back. “YES, I AM DOING WELL. HOW ARE YOU D-?” But then he abruptly cut himself off, realizing that he’d already asked how you were. His cheeks flushed and he coughed, recomposing himself with a shake of his head. 

“LET ME START OVER. HELLO, HUMAN. GOOD MORNING. HOW ARE YOU DOING ON THIS FINE DAY?”

… Were you still sleeping? “Is everything okay?”

He made a small noise of frustration, his expression twisting into a scowl. “ISN’T THIS HOW HUMANS GREET EACH OTHER? FRISK TOLD ME THIS IS HOW YOU GREET EACH OTHER.”

You straightened yourself. Something about his glare was making it easier to handle his presence. “I mean, I’m not the best person to ask about- do you need something?”

“I APPRECIATE HOW DIRECT YOU ARE, HUMAN PERSON. YES, ACTUALLY. IS KATHERINE HERE?”

You made a face. “Kitty? Why do you care?”

“...NO REASON.” He coughed again. Did skeletons have lungs? “UH, ANYWAY. FRISK SAID SANS TOLD HER YOU LEFT THIS AT OUR HOUSE AND SANS ASKED HER TO TAKE IT TO YOU, BUT THEN TORIEL HAD TO TAKE HER TO GET OUTFIT FITTINGS AND SO I TOLD HER I WOULD TAKE IT TO YOU.”

You blinked. You were far too dizzy to understand a word of what he’d just said. “What?”  
“FRISK SAID SANS TOLD HER YOU LEFT THIS AT OUR HOUSE AND SANS ASKED HER TO TAKE IT TO YOU, BUT THEN TORIEL HAD TO TAKE HER TO GET OUTFIT FITTINGS AND SO I TOLD HER THAT I WOULD TAKE IT TO YOU,” he repeated, which was helpful, except that it wasn’t at all. You stared up blankly at him and he let out a huff, rolling his eyelights and slamming something down on the counter. You stared at it as he withdrew his hand, revealing a phone. _Your _phone.

You snatched it up as fast as humanly possible, checking to make sure it wasn’t cracked. You unlocked it, letting out a silent breath of relief you hadn’t realized you’d been holding at the sight of your familiar homescreen.

You tucked it into your apron, pausing once it was out of sight and glancing up at the skeleton. “You said Sans told you to give this to me?”  
“NO. FRISK TOLD ME HE TOLD HER TO GIVE IT TO YOU BECAUSE YOU LEFT IT AT OUR HOUSE BUT FRISK HAD TO-”

“Why didn’t he just give it to me himself?” He’d never been one to miss an opportunity to bother you before.

“BECAUSE HE’S LAZY AND HE HAD A LATE NIGHT. YOU KNOW HOW HE IS. BUT IT’S ACTUALLY FOR THE BEST, BECAUSE I WANTED TO TALK TO YOU ALONE.”

That sounded decidedly _not good_. “Why?”  
“I WANTED TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE WHOLE DEBACLE LAST SATURDAY. I PROMISE I’M NOT USUALLY SO, UH. AGGRESSIVE.”

“So beating your little brother half to death was a one time thing, then?"

"SANS ISN'T MY LITTLE BROTHER. OR. I MEAN, YES, IN STATURE, BUT ONLY BECAUSE HE DOESN'T HAVE A HIGH CALCIUM DIET LIKE I DO."

"Wait, wait, wait. He's _ older _ than you?"

"UH, YES."

You stared up at him, bewildered. "And he lets you treat him like that?" 

He scrunched up his nose, confused. "LIKE WHAT?"

He didn’t seem to realize anything was abnormal about him and his brother’s relationship. You felt, quite suddenly, sick. "... that's kind of fucked."

"FAMILY IS ALWAYS COMPLICATED."

You couldn't disagree. Your family had been a small one- just you and your old man for most of it- and the experience of having a family had really fucked you sideways.

"Is the girl- the kid, is she, like, family to you guys?" You said after a second, because you’d always wondered who her parents were. 

"SHE'S A HUMAN."

"Yeah, but, like. Why is she always hanging around you guys? Like, what, you're just friends with her or something?"

"FRISK IS MY FAVORITE HUMAN."

"But she's, like, twelve." It was kind of weird to be friends with children when you were a full ass adult. 

"ALMOST FIFTEEN,” he corrected. “BUT SHE DOESN'T ALWAYS HANG AROUND US. I MEAN, ME, AT LEAST. SHE SPENDS A LOT OF TIME WITH SANS. BUT I DON'T KNOW WHY, BECAUSE HE'S PRETTY TERRIBLE COMPANY AND SHE HAS OTHER OPTIONS. SHE'S QUITE POPULAR, YOU KNOW." He seemed almost proud of her, which was sweet in a way that made you itchy. 

"...yeah,” you agreed, unsure of what else to say. You fucking sucked sometimes. “Uh, It's fine. I mean, you're apologizing for last week. It's fine, I mean. We're good. Thanks."

He nodded. "THAT'S EXCELLENT. I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU MIGHT BE MAD AT ME BECAUSE YOU SEEMED SO CONCERNED FOR MY BROTHER."

"... well, he's fine, right? All better?" Not that you cared. 

"YES.” A pause. “I MEAN, NO, BUT HE'S NEVER FINE. ALWAYS DRINKING. YOU KNOW I HEARD HIM UP AT THREE IN THE MORNING TODAY? GUESS WHAT HE WAS DOING."

"Uh-"

"DRINKING! AGAIN! TWO FULL BOTTLES! IT'S DISGUSTING."

"Jesus, is he _ dead?" _

_ " _HE'S SLEEPING IT OFF. HE'LL BE FINE. AND I WASN'T GOING TO TELL YOU BECAUSE IT REFLECTS BADLY ON HIM AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO THINK POORLY OF HIM."

"... But you just told me."

He froze. "... OH. UM. NO, I WAS JUST… JOKING."

"Also, why would I care about it at all?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE HIS GIRLFRIEND."

You felt a little like he’d slapped you. You’d almost forgotten about that. Actually, no, you hadn’t forgotten. You’d been thinking about it constantly for a week. About his proposition. You weren’t going to take it, you’d decided. No jacket was worth ruining your entire life over. Right?

Right. Probably. Fuck. Lying never turned out well for people, in any case. You need to come clean now that Sans wasn’t in immediate danger of dying. "... about that."

"YES, AND THAT'S ACTUALLY WHY I CAME HERE TODAY. SEE, HUMAN, I'VE REALIZED THAT MY BROTHER NEEDS SOMETHING NEITHER ME OR FRISK CAN GIVE HIM. HE'S… LATELY I'VE BEEN WORRIED ABOUT HIM. HE'S OUT ALL NIGHT, DISAPPEARS FOR HOURS, AND HE BARELY SLEEPS. I'M CONCERNED HE MIGHT BE STRAYING DOWN A BAD PATH BUT HE WON'T TALK TO ME."

"Gee, I wonder why," you said dryly. He nodded vigorously in agreement.

"ME TOO. IT MAKES NO SENSE. BUT FRISK CAN'T GET ANYTHING OUT IF HIM EITHER AND AFTER SEEING HIM INTERACT WITH YOU I'VE REALIZED ONLY THE GENTLE HAND OF A LOVER CAN SMACK ANY SENSE INTO HIM."

_ Lover? _"Sorry, what?"

"AND I GET A GOOD FEELING FROM YOU. I'D HOPED HE'D DATE A MONSTER, BUT YOU'RE A PRETTY MONSTER-ISH HUMAN."

It seemed like that was supposed to be a compliment. "...thanks."

"YOU’RE WELCOME. YOU HAVE YOUR LIFE TOGETHER."

"Uh."

"YOU CAN HOLD YOU OWN. YOU'RE COURAGEOUS. STANDING UP TO ME OF ALL PEOPLE. YOU HAVE DETERMINATION IN YOU. I CAN TELL. AND YOU'RE COMPASSIONATE, TAKING CARE OF SANS LIKE THAT. I THINK YOU COULD REALLY HELP HIM."

"Thanks, but you really don't know anything about me."

“WELL I’M _TRYING _TO GET TO KNOW YOU NOW, AREN’T I?”  
And while he was not exactly being nice about it, it seemed like he had good intentions, and that was something, wasn’t it? 

“Um, okay. I’m- sorry, I can’t really talk right now, because I’m working and I’ve got a long shift ahead.”

“I CAN WAIT.”

“I know, it’s just that you, um.” You glanced at the street. A woman was looking in at the store, eyes narrowed at the skeleton. You might intimidate customers, you know? From coming in.”

The skeleton shoved two hundred-dollar bills into your tip jar. “THAT SHOULD COVER WHATEVER YOU’LL MAKE FOR A WHILE, RIGHT?”  
“Uh-”

“_ GREAT. _ WE CAN START NOW. ON A SCALE OF ONE TO TEN, HOW EMOTIONALLY AVAILABLE ARE YOU?”

“... we’re starting there? Not, like, at _what’s your favorite color?”__  
_ _“_WHY WOULD I CARE WHAT YOUR FAVORITE COLOR IS? ANSWER THE QUESTION.” He paused for a moment. “PLEASE.”

You made a face. The less likable you seemed the more likely it was he’d leave you alone. Luckily for you, you were already an unlikable person. “Like a zero.”  
“THAT’S NOT AN OPTION.”

“A one.”

“WELL, THAT’S NOT GREAT. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO PRISON OR COMMITTED A FELONY?”

You were a little out of practice but you were pretty sure that wasn’t a question people usually asked when trying to get to know a person. “I’ve got a DUI.”

“WHAT’S THAT?”

“Driving under the influence.”  
“OF WHAT?”  
“Drunk driving. I ran a red light. Didn’t hurt anybody but, like. You know.”

“YOU’RE AN ALCOHOLIC?”

You shrugged. “I mean, not really. But I guess a little bit, maybe.”

“SO IS MY BROTHER! THAT’S A SHARED INTEREST. WHAT ELSE ARE YOU PASSIONATE ABOUT?”

“Nothing.”

“SO IS SANS! WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE THINGS ABOUT MY BROTHER?”  
“I don’t know.”

“THERE HAS TO BE REASONS YOU’VE DECIDED TO LET HIM DATE YOU.”

“I’m telling you. I really have no clue.”

He made a face. “YOU KNOW, SANS WAS A LOT BETTER AT THIS THEN YOU ARE. HE HAD NOTHING BUT NICE THINGS TO SAY.”

Your heart stuttered. Fuck. “Like what?”

“LIKE HE THINKS THAT YOU’RE VERY FUNNY AND HAVE CUTE DIMPLES AND HE THINKS THE FACT THAT YOU RIDE A MOTORCYCLE IS VERY COOL.”

“Yeah?”

“AND SANS DOESN’T REALLY SAY NICE THINGS ABOUT PEOPLE SO IT’S REALLY INTERESTING THAT HE LIKES YOU SO MUCH. HE DOESN’T DATE PEOPLE, EITHER, SO THERE MUST BE SOMETHING SPECIAL ABOUT YOU. I’M JUST TRYING TO FIND OUT WHAT IT IS. WHAT WOULD YOU SAY YOUR BEST QUALITIES ARE?”

“I don’t know.”

“YOU’RE NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS.”

“Yeah.”

And before he could ask another question Kitty burst in. Except that aside from the pink hair it looked nothing like Kitty. Instead of her daily space buns she’d slung up her hair into a hasty, sloppy ponytail, and her makeup was a little smeared, like it was from yesterday and she hadn’t bothered to wash it off. She was wearing a faded sweatshirt two sizes too big and she looked thoroughly frazzled, red in the face and eyes.

"I'm here,” she said, stumbling over her feet. “I'm here, sorry. Late. Being unprofessional. Hahahahah."

You were not very good with people, but even you could tell something was off about her. The skeleton did not seem to notice.

“KATHERINE,” he greeted, nodding politely. “HELLO. GOOD MORNING. HOW ARE YOU DOING ON THIS FINE DAY?”

She stopped cold, having just noticed there was a massive monster in the middle of the room. “Oh, hi, Papyrus,” she replied, sounding distant and a little cold. “So funny to, uh, see you here, talking to, uh, my coworker.”

And without another word she walked past him and you straight into the backroom. So that wasn’t a great sign.

“...I’m gonna go, um, talk to her,” you told Papyrus- what a stupid fucking name- already starting off after her. “Just tell me if anybody comes.”

“OKAY.”

You followed Kitty into the back room, where she was violently dumping the contents of her backpack into her locker.

You stared at her, toeing the line between standing in the doorway and entering the room. "... hey, you alright?"

"_ Me?” _she asked, voice high and a little shriller than usual. “Alright? Yes. Good."

"You're sure?"

"I said I'm fine."

She slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the lockers around it before shoving her apron over her head. “You really shouldn’t have your friends over when you’re on the job,” she said as she tied the string around her waist, unsmiling.

“He’s not my friend.”

“Okay.”

And then she walked to the kitchen, not looking back.

You stared after her, a little flabbergasted and maybe even a little, like, hurt or something, when you heard voices from the counter. 

“THE MACHINE SAYS THAT’LL BE FIVE DOLLARS AND FIFTY THREE CENTS,” Papyrus said, handing a blue haired teenager a lemon poppyseed muffin and a black coffee. 

She inserted her credit card into the scanner and paid.

“It’s cool they hire monsters here,” she commented, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.

“THEY HIRE MONSTERS HERE?” The machine whined and spat out a receipt. “HERE’S YOUR PAPER. YOU’RE DISMISSED.”

She gave him a small smile and placed a dollar into the tip jar and left just as you rushed to the counter, bewildered.

“What the fuck?” you asked, shaking.

The skeleton didn’t seem to realize anything was wrong. “I DIDN’T WANT TO INTERRUPT YOU AND KATHERINE’S CONVERSATION SO I JUST STEPPED IN FOR YOU.”

“Dude. You can’t do that.” You glanced back at the kitchen. No one had noticed. Hopefully. 

“BUT I DID. ALSO, SHE GAVE ME A TIP.” He pointed to the tip jar. “I’M GOOD AT THIS, AREN’T I?”

You grabbed the copy of the receipt from the register, scanning it vigorously. He’d done everything correctly. He’d even inputted the cashier name as PAPYRUS THE GREAT AND TER- but it cut off because of the character limit.

You stared at the receipt before tucking it into your apron. You didn’t need anyone to see that.

“... Can you just, uh, go back to the other side of the counter?” you asked after a moment, rubbing at your temples.

“CERTAINLY."

He shuffled over to the other side. You stared at him.

“I really have to get back to work.”

“YES, OF COURSE. IN A LITTLE. I’M STILL TALKING TO YOU.”

You were growing impatient with him. Kitty was mad at you for some reason and you couldn’t stop thinking about her slamming the locker door. “What do you need, huh?”

“I’VE DECIDED YOU’RE STILL AN ADEQUATE MATCH FOR MY BROTHER. WHICH IS WHY I'VE SET UP A DATE FOR YOU AND HIM."

That snapped you out of it. "Whoa, wait, _ what _?"

"A DATE. DINNER. TOMORROW."

Your heart had lodged itself into your throat as you fumbled to find an excuse. “Um, yeah, tomorrow doesn’t really work for me.”

“WHY?”  
“I’ve got… work.”

“THE DINNER WILL BE AFTER WORK.”

“Um, after work I have a doctor’s appointment.” Liar. That was today. 

“FOR WHAT?”

_ For the magical hickey your big brother gave me when we had drunk sex. _“Um… just a general, uh, checkup.”

“THEN RESCHEDULE.”

“I can’t.”  
“THEN CANCEL IT. I CAN INTRODUCE YOU TO FRISK’S PHYSICIAN. SHE’S QUITE GOOD AND VERY FLEXIBLE AND DOES VERY WELL WHEN IT COMES TO FIXING HUMAN BITS. I CAN PAY FOR YOUR VISIT.”

“Uh-”

“SO TOMORROW, THEN. SANS NEEDS UPLIFTING.”

It was now or never. Time to come clean. “Okay, well, me and Sans aren’t really… I’m not-”  
“BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING, I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT BREAKING UP WITH MY BROTHER WOULD DESTROY HIM. HE GETS VERY ATTACHED TO THE THINGS HE LIKES.”

Sans didn’t like you, though. Nobody did. Not anymore. Not really. They either thought you were fun to hang out with drunk or thought they could fix you. Or wanted to fuck something and you seemed easy. 

“I’m not breaking up with him. We aren’t even-”

“BECAUSE IF YOU BREAK MY BROTHER'S HEART I WILL CUT OUT AND EAT YOURS,” he continued. And you almost laughed until you realized that he was not joking.

“DO WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER?”

You swallowed. 

“... yeah.”

“EXCELLENT.” He straightened, adjusting his scarf. “WELL. THIS HAS BEEN A GREAT TALK, HASN’T IT?”

“Great,” you echoed faintly,  
“SO I’LL PICK YOU UP TOMORROW. SIXISH. FROM HERE.”

“I guess that’s happening.”

He glanced behind you. “IS KATHERINE STILL HERE?”  
“...she’s busy.”  
“OKAY.” He set his jaw, furrowing his brow. “WELL. TELL HER I SAY…” he was deep in contemplation, deciding what melodramatic message to send her. “_HELLO._”

And then with a whoosh of his cape he was gone.

You stared after him.

Westley poked his head out from the corner, beaming. “Everything good out here?”  
“Everything is great,” you said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had nothing else to do but write this past month because of, uh, circumstances, and I've been listening to artic monkeys the entire time, which explains why this chapter is so gritty and depressing and horny.  
Sorry it's kinda fucked up! I told you this story would escalate! 
> 
> Papyrus and Reader seem to get along pretty well! Maybe because they're both cold people with good hearts. Or maybe because they both have to deal with Sans. Also Sans is sad and Frisk isn't around to cheer him up because she's a teenager and does anyone else think their relationship is fucking weird? 
> 
> Anyways. Hoped you liked it! I've been working on other fics recently, you can check them out on my page if you want! Or hmu on my Tumblr, Where I have fanart, including a drawing of Kitty and an amazing drawing of Sans and reader by Randymoo! Check it out!  
https://puffers-mcmuffers.tumblr.com/
> 
> See you guys later! Thanks for reading and stay safe!

**Author's Note:**

> i lived, bitches
> 
> Follow my Tumblr for fanart, extra scenes and other fics you can't find on ao3!  
https://puffers-mcmuffers.tumblr.com/


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